The Chronicles of Victaus the Witch Hunter

Victaus was pushed up to the yawning gate entrance by his parents.  Here, by the evil wrought iron gate, they waited in awkward silence. Victaus stood there in the growing darkness, just the three of them with only the naked fingers of the trees scraping together dryly in the cool breeze.  Victaus still thought the wrought iron fence looked evil, a wall of spikes ready for bodies to impale.  His father, Draeniel, stood just behind Victaus, eyes staring off into space as was his way, refusing to meet Victaus' eyes when Victaus looked up at him.  Draeniel did not want to see Victaus gone.  Velaine, his mother, was the one who had pushed Victaus out, apprenticing him out without even talking to his father.  It was dark now.  The sky was a deep blue just being speckled by distant silver dots half-blocked by the lattice of black tree branches.

Victaus jumped: the sound of something moving could be heard coming up the path.  A light came towards them from between the clustered trunks of trees.  Soon, a figure still only a shadow except for the arm that held the lantern, came into view, boots thumping on tree roots and stones. This must be him: the witch hunter Tredael.  Father put a reassuring hand on Victaus's shoulder; Velaine only shifted impatiently.  The swinging lantern turned and now the man was like a black spectre moving through the darkness straight towards them, his face masked in shadows.  Victaus backed up against his father, nuzzling his head into the fabric of his father's doublet, feeling the rising and falling of his stomach.  Draeniel squeezed Victaus' shoulder.  The witch hunter stood before them lantern swinging slowly in his hand which, even in the pale orange light, Victaus could see was gnarled and scarred.  The hunter wore a black cape of coarse weave and a hood hid his face except his frowning mouth.  His waist was crossed by a bandolier containing pouches and slots for wooden stakes; his belt was covered in small and large pouches too, and all manner os small objects and charms Victaus could not even begin to name.
"You the Tairmholts?" the words came rasping out from under the hood so suddenly that Victaus jumped back against his father.  The shadows under the cowl shifted; Victaus knew the man's eyes were on him
"Draeniel De' Tairmholt, and this is my wife Velaine–" Victaus felt his father's voice resonant through his head as his father spoke.
"We're here to give you the boy as an apprentice, remember?  I sent you a messenger that you most likely received." Velaine cut over father, taking one step towards the grizzled stranger.

The man lowered the lantern so its light fell squarely on Victaus face; he turned away from the light, burying his face deeper into his father.
"Why he looks pale as a town girl." the stranger's voice came wheezing out from under the hood, smacking against Victaus' face hot and smelling of alcohol. "I bet he hasn't done a proper days work in his life.  You do realize what your signing your lad up to don't you?"

Draeniel began to say something, Victaus could hear his voice begin to rise in his chest, but Velaine cut him off again with an impetuous flick of her hand.
"The arrangements, master witch hunter, have already been made.  It's time the boy was apprenticed out to a master, and what more manly than that of a witch hunter?" Velaine laid a hand suddenly on her stomach, as Victaus had noticed her doing most of the night and the day before; just as quickly, she took it off and continued speaking, "Besides, I would not want to deprive you of training a second, passing on your knowledge.  Though I doubt he'll even see much of what you do: this place is very quiet." she finished with a cold look down her nose at Victaus; a face that father tended to miss.
"And why, ma'am, do you think it's so quiet?" the man said leaning forward, the scars around his mouth and on his hands very evident in the lantern light.

This time Velaine began to say something, though better of it, and snapped her mouth closed.
"Well, then, if we're agreed, I need to hurry on.  It's nearly the first full moon of autumn, the bugarts'll be out feeding soon.  Eight years then?  Is that what you said?"
"Yes, eight years apprenticeship should give him enough time too..." Velaine looked down at Victaus from the corners of her eyes, "Mature."

Velaine's hand went around Victaus shoulder, nails digging into his skin as she thrust him toward the glowering man.  Victaus recoiled, turning back to face his father.  Draeniel still wouldn't meet his eyes.  His father knelt down and opened his arms; Victaus fell against his fathers chest and hugged him tight, tears falling off his chin onto his father's fine doublet.
"I'm sorry," His father's whispered voice rumbled in his ear, "we'll meet again, my son."

Victaus stood back from his father, who finally looked at him with a sad smile.  The light of the lantern glinted off lines of water running from Draeniel's drooping, brown eyes into his beard.
Words came trembling out of Victaus, "Don't make me go!  I don't want to!  Let me stay, I promise I'll do all my lessons, I'll fence everyday; I'll be good!"

Velaine pushed her way in between them, shooing Victaus off with her look.  The man was standing on the other side of the wrought iron fence waiting.  Draeniel stood up behind his wife, still watching as Victaus slowly–ever so slowly–shuffled through the open gateway.  Draeniel at last dropped his gaze as Velaine placed a hand on her stomach.  She then turned and marched off, gesturing for her husband to follow.  Victaus stared for a while at the dark, empty space that his father had left.

"Ya going to stand there all night, boy?  Come along!" the man grabbed Victaus by the scruff of his neck, pushing him into the circle of lantern light in front of him, "Let's get going: got an early day 'morrow."
Victaus let the man push him along down the path, leaving the clearing and the gloomy iron fence behind, dark trees surrounded them on all sides now except for the narrow dirt strip of the path.  Black fingers and bony limbs with wooden skin reached towards Victaus and only the weak circle of light held them at bay. He was numb.  Victaus' mind refused to register exactly what was happening to him: all he knew, all he had known and experienced was behind him now.  His bedroom, his books, his toys, and his friends were safe and cozy back in Tairm, but he was marching on gelatin legs towards an unknown future with a complete stranger.  Victaus scrunched up his face, water was gathering in his eyes but he refused to cry in front of the man; tears rolled down his cheeks anyway.  He felt his chest tighten with an incoming sob.  But he clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut.  He would be a man; he'd show them.  Everyone would see what a man he would be and surly Velaine would allow him back home.  Surely she would.

"Well, seeing as we are now going to spend a lot of time together, we might as well–" the stranger began to say in his harsh, rasping voice that made the night wind sound silken.  Victaus cut him off with a screeching sob, having been shocked out of his misery.  He choked back the cry, tears flooding down his cheeks.  He quickly snapped his mouth together and smeared the teardrops with the back of his hand.

"No need to scream, boy.  You'll soon be seein' things a lot more scary than I, best get used to it.  I was about to say, before yer interruption, that we might as well learn each other's names now... so, what do they call you?"
"V–Vic–Victaus... De' Tairmholt, sir." Victaus jaw was tight as he spoke.  It took all his concentration to keep it from quivering.
"Victaus, eh?  Good name, good enough at least.  A bit strong for a... lad like you, isn't?" the man chuckled, a coarse scraping noise emanating from his throat, "An' my names Tredael.  Tredael the witch hunter."
Victaus wiped his nose, "Do–do you have a last name?"
Victaus could immediately feel the pressure of Tredael's gaze even though the cowl still hid his eyes in shadows.
"Tredael will do fine."
They walked in silence for what felt to Victaus an eternity.  Though they couldn't have been walking for all that long, the darkness shrouding the path before and behind him made seem the trail was ten times longer than it really was, and the state of shock–that haze that clings to your mind and makes coherent thought impossible– made every minute squeeze by like it was itself a span of astronomical age.

It was not until they were very close that Victaus noticed the lights winking through the tree trunks; a fence, a wooden fence, and a gate blocked the path twenty feet ahead of them.  As they got closer to the gate, there was something about the wood that made Victaus hold for a step; the wood looked... different, but he could not exactly–nor did he take the time or energy–think about was bothering him.  Tredael was humming a tune to himself as he opened the gate's latch and ushered Victaus through.  Still in a daze, Victaus recognized the tune: "All's in Winters Lost".  A funerary tune.  It furthered the chill that had settled on Victaus' bones.  They walked past garden beds housing green stalks and leaves filling the night breeze with sharp scents.  A house lay straight ahead.  Victaus couldn't see much of it, but he saw more plants in hanging box under the casement windows; smoke issuing from the little chimney  and a roof of thatch.  It was a small cabin, made of wood and twigs and dirt.  And he was going to be living here for the next eight years.  Tredael stood by the door, fishing through the pockets on his belt for keys.  Victaus stood a little behind him, longing for his four-poster bed and comfortable manor house.  But they were gone, weren't they?  The sound of Tredael placing the key into the heavy, iron lock and the door swinging open on heavy hinges was the sound of inevitability: the sound of Victaus never going back.

"Come on in, boy, before I close the door an' ya catch cold out there." Tredael said from inside the doorway.
Victaus scurried inside, fearing the dark and the cold more than the derelict cabin.  As he passed it, Victaus noticed that the door–a thick slab of wooden planks bound in wide bands of iron–had the same, strange look and feel of the fence gate.  It looked as if many, tiny marks had been carved into the door.  That door which closed quite suddenly behind him.  This was it: no going back, not now.  Victaus had to blink as the light in the cabin was very bright compared to Tredael's lantern.  Once his eyes had adjusted to the warm light, Victaus beheld a surprisingly cozy room.  A fire burned bright and warm in a stone hearth to his right; several candles danced on white wax in several of the windowsills; the floor was of old planks of a reddish wood; several cupboards, cabinets, and a wash bowl marked where a kitchen was to his left in the far corner; several tables, barely visible under mountains of books, papers, pots, quills, and odd scientific-looking instruments, dotted the room; there were several chairs looking towards the fireplace; and two polished doors stood in the right and opposite walls.
"Here it is.  Home.  Got the kitchen over there, fireplace, other things.  You can sleep on the mattress over there near the fire.  My study's through there," Tredael threw his arm towards the door on the right wall, "and that leads to the garden out back.  'spose yer hungry.  There might be some food left in the pantry."
"S–sir... Tredael, why do the doors going outside look funny?" Victaus stammered.  And he din't feel very hungry right now.
"Funny?  Ah, yah mean the Compact marks; that's what all the little notches are on the doors.  They're on the fence too.  It's magic, boy, keeps this place safe from... unwanted visitors."

Suddenly, from out of a pile of junk near the fire, came a black shape leaping through the air.  It nimbly landed atop one of the tables, the sheaves of paper barely disturbed by its movement.  It was a cat, black as night, with eyes bright as gems.  It looked at Victaus with these wide, glittering eyes.  Victaus recoiled: he didn't like cats, not after what the Proun's cat had done to him when he was five.
"Her name's Promnot." Tredael chuckled, "She's a damn smart cat and a repellent against many... nasty things.  Can smell out fey magic.  And I always stroke her spine fer good luck." the black cat arched its back at this, green lamp-eyes set solidly on Victaus.  "So you might as well get friendly with her: your life might very soon depend on her." Tredael scratched Promnot behind the ears, "She'll look after ya, like a mother almost."

Victaus stepped away from the cat as if it was poisonous, stumbled on one of the legs of the chairs, and fell flat on his back.  That was it.  Tears gushed from his eyes and he started to sob uncontrollably.  He had had enough of mothers.  He had had more than he could handle.  The numbness of his mind gave way to unthinkable tiredness  the crying draining him of all strength he had left.  He curled up into a ball by the fire, tears falling down his cheeks onto the floor, shaking with every whimper.  Soon Victaus was asleep, still curled up in a tight ball.  Tredael took his cape off and placed it over Victaus, then sat down in one of the chairs as quiet as he could, pipe out and lit.  He sat, smoking and stroking his coarse chin, Promnot by his side.

"I hope he lasts longer than the last one, Promnie, fer his sake."

Narielle

Tyden looked over his half-moon spectacles at Narielle.  His eyes, like chips of black glass, seemed to almost gaze past Nariel as if pretending she wasn't there at all.  With brown, twig-like, fingers, Tyden turned the pages of his compendium, frowning down at the crackling parchment as if they, too, had displeased him.
"Do you know why I am upset at you, Miss Nariel?" the black eyes cooly slid up to glare at her before sliding back to wish malefaction on the parchment pages.
A drop of sweat rolled down the crease of her spine, Nariel took a deep breath before answering, "No, sir."
"'No, sir?'  You do not know why I called you here?"
"No, sir." Nariel replied.
Tyden steepled his slender fingers, resting his little elbows on his desk.  His long, thin nose protruded over his fingertips; his skin was the color of parchment paper and crinkled just like it when he moved.  He, like the rest of his kind, were short, ugly, and Nariel loathed the little race.  She kept this loathing deep inside as she waited for him to speek.
"You really are a dumb creature, aren't you, Miss Nariel?  It is a marvel your kind became the dominant race; in fact, if it weren't for your kinds' physicality and tendency to make war, I believe it would be the cauliba ruling this empire.  But, let us focus.  Your problem, Miss Nariel, is your lack of cooperation: your seeming inability to become a useful and productive member of an organic machine; to become a well-oiled cog working in perfect conjunction with one another.
"Take my new treasure over there.  It is a clock, fresh from Corvon, and keeps time and ticks and moves its hands because of such a series of perfectly wound, perfectly made gears, springs, and chains.  Try to picture in your head what would happen if, say, one of the gears was misshapen or ill aligned?"
Nariel glanced over at the new contraption sitting on the mantle; clocks were a new invention in Terevas, having only been perfected in the last five years.  In the pause left by Tyden, the delicate ticking of the clock's hands could be heard.
"It would stop keeping time accurately, and halt?"
"Yes, precisely.  Do you see where I'm going with this?  You are that gear, Miss Nariel; that misshapen, improperly-made, out-of-place gear.  The Penesthasia School for Girls is the most prestigious boarding institution of higher learning in the entire eastern quarter of Terevas, and you think you can waltz through your classes and treat nothing with the gravity or focus it is due.  I, for one, am completely befuddled as to how you even got here in the first place: you are an orphan with no family name, no relatives, no friends; I would say you used sorcery to acquire the gold for your tuition, but then again, you would fail at that too."
"I do take my classes seriously!" Nariel couldn't help herself–no one could–under Tyden's cold barrage of disdain, "I have high marks in Dancing and History, and I did well in Fencing last semester!"
"Hardly the skills needed for an educated woman in Terevas!  We are not running a fencing club or ballroom here, but an academy of learning!  Unfortunately for you, your benefactors–whom ever they may be–unwisely paid for you to go to this school and receive an education, not become some housemaid or apprentice wastrel.  Some of us faculty thought 'Ah, she may be stupid and ill-mannered, but at least is a graceful dancer.'  But where are you now in your lessons, hmm?  Natural talent does not replace hard work and practice.  Later, some of us said; 'Aha!  She may be bad at arithmetic, grammar, and rhetoric, but at least she is a Compact mage.'  And where are you now with your studies in magic?"
"I haven't made it past Form IV." Nariel replied flatly.
"Form IV?  That is for hedge mages; children.  You should be ashamed to call yourself a student of this school.  Your marks are not enough to merit your moving up into Dorm VII; which in your case means... expulsion."
"No, I can't be expelled!  You can't do that!"
"I can and I will if you give me the slightest more reason.  As it stands, the gold given to us for your tuition is running out, failure to reach Dorm VII and finish school this year would dry up your funds, and thus mean expulsion.  You have only three options: bring your marks up to a respectable level by the end of term exam or–failing to do that, which I most certainly think you will–you may go ahead and drop out now, taking what little gold is left to you and making your way in the world the few ways lonesome young women have."
Nariel knew he meant whoring.  Professor Tyden was not abashed to talking of such things with other young students in her positon.
"And you must now I mean become a whore or other such lowly, dirty profession.  In fact, it is mockery to call it a profession; it is instead the disgusting plight taken on by women who, like you, were too lazy to do anything else.  Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life, as long as it will be, washing laundry or pleasing male customers?  Not that you'd be any good, to be sure, ugly as you are."
That was sick irony: ugly, coming from Tyden, the cruelest, ugliest cauliban Nariel had ever had to meet.
"Your third option, Miss Nariel," Tyden said, leaning forward over his book, a smirk playing at the corners of his thin lips, "is to accompany Professor Tavald on an expedition beyond the Wall. He has requested several more students to help him, and since history is one of the few things you are decent at, I put your name in the mix.  The expedition leaves in two days.  So there are your options, which do you choose, Miss Nariel?"

Nariel rushed past the gray flanks of columns, arriving at the great espanse of courtyard in the center of the school.  A cold wind blew from a cloudy sky, forcing those outside to wrap themselves in coats and cloaks; Nariel had not bothered to fetch hers from her dorm.  The wind snatched at her raven hair, ignored locks flailing loose from her bun as she leaned against the balustrade.  She knew it was unlikely she would be able to score high on the exam; she was a bad test taker and the exams here were arduous.  She couldn't merely drop put either as she had no where else to go and she didn't want to give that weasal-faced Professor Tyden the satsfaction of watching her drop out.  But... go across the Wall?  A shiver ran down Nariel's back at the thought: there was nothing beyond Markian's Wall except vast wilderness, outcasts, and heathen men who ate their own children.  Her stomach felt empty at the thought of venturing out into those profane wilds.  Terevas was civilization, safely tucked behind the comforting massiveness of the Wall raised so long ago.   Clusters of faculty and students traversed the cobbled stones before her, wanting to get back indoors and out of the wind.  The fountain sat cold and shunned.  As several professors walked by her she idly picked out words from their conversation, words others spoke as they hurried by her: the Isethen was dead.

***

"The Isethen was–is–the premier mage; defender of Compact Magic; guardian of Terevas's bounds.  He, or she, has a close connection to the Compact from which all magic is derived.  You've learned this in school, right?" Path look Nariel in the face as he talked to her.

Nariel nodded; "Yes, magical theory was one of the first things we learned in Form I.  The Accord is an ancient document composed during the late Prehistoric Age by early humans under the guidance of the Triad to define and control the free-flowing chaos that was magic back then.  That was the basics, if I can remember right."
Path and Nariel sat under a wild sun, its rays illuminating a strange, untamed place, literally–as far as Nariel knew–in the middle of nowhere.  She had chosen the third option given to her, and what a choice it was.  She had accompanied Professor Tavald, a shade less cruel cauliban lit with a fervor for history and archaeology, as an assistant in his expedition beyond the Wall of Markian.  She had visited Markian's Wall once before as a field trip when she was eleven.  She had forgotten just how mind-numbingly huge the Wall was: standing nearly seven hundred feet high and eighty-eight feet wide, the Wall of Markian was the biggest structure known to man.  It was guarded by Markian's Watch, an elite army numbering in the thousands that patrolled the miles of wall; entire cities had grown up around and on the Wall merely to provide supplies to the Wallwalkers.  It had been terrifying at first: seeing the Wall, stretching from horizon to horizon, disappearing ever so slowly behind her back and knowing she was now in a sea of thick forests, jagged, ancient mountains, and savage plains.  Someone else actually had to take the reins of her horse from her, forcing herself and the hesitant beast beneath her legs to move forward into the unknown.  She had no idea where she was; Tavald refused to share his maps with anyone except for his senior assistants and Path.  Her knowledge of geography was shaky–maps themselves of the greater world were in themselves limited–but by her own calculation they were some score miles southeast of the Wall.
Path rose, helping Nariel to her feet and leading her back to the camp.  They waded through the thick, dry grass of the heath they had at last ended their journey.
"The Isethen is most importantly the living embodiment of the Compact; with out an Isethen Wild Magic would most likely reign and the Accord lay forgotten.  The Isethens, as you know, have been important assets of the empire.  Did they not teach you this at your school?" Path took her arm like a gentleman as they navigated around tumbled stones.
"They were vague on the nature of the Isethen," Nariel said, "what was the Isethen's name?"
"And I thought everyone knew who the current Isethen is.  His name was Terciat.  Previously from House Tannix.  Why the curiosity in the Isethen?"
"I simply realized I knew quite little about them back at school when I heard Terciat had died.  Is there only the one Isethen?"
"I believe one is born every generation.  I'm not sure, of course, how it all works, but usually before they die they give the name of their successor.  Often they train the next Isethen in fact."
"But Terciat didn't name a successor did he?"
"As far as I know, that is correct."
They arrived at the camp, a hamlet of wooden poles and canvas roofs inhabited by trays and tables containing charts, maps, and the artifacts and sherds the diggers had found.  Professor Tavald stood on a stool before one such table, scrutinizing a small blob of rock through a pocket telescope.  Path stopped before the the pavilion.  Nariel took several steps under the canvas before giving him a backwards glance: he was such a mysterious figure, dressed like some vagabond hero right out of novels Nariel had read.  He had a hood which he often wore; his torso was covered in aleather jerkin so rough and so dirty from his travels that Nariel marveled the thing stayed together without the aid of magic; a broadsword of strange craftsmanship–not the work of any Terevasian forge as far as she knew–was slung around his back along with several other oddments and tools of survival; his pants, covered by a tunic bottom that stetched to his knees, were crudely sewn in places and patched with a variety of different materials.  Path was altogether a patched together man.  He had met the expedition by chance while it was journeying towards the Wall; Path had heard the venture could use a second guide.  Path was an exile and knew much of the world beyond Terevas.  He never told anyone why he had been banished, Nariel knew it had been for five years, normally exiles are avoided, but Path was able to assure Tavald of his honesty and passed Tavald's examination.  During the long trek here, Path had shared with Nariel some of his adventures while an exile or told her os some piece of history or lore he knew of places they passed, or else of other far-disant places.  Path was the type of person, Nariel had decided, that had very many secrets and, yet, made almost no secret of his secrets.  Nariel was called away by Raphinel, one of Professor Tavald's senior students, to help him catalog artifacts that had been dug up that day.  Hours passed by filled with the scratching of her ink quill on parchment paper backed by the continual scraping and clanging sounds that came from the pech diggers at the dig site two dozen yards from camp.  The small, homely shapes of the pechs moved in and out of the widening excavation scrambling over piles of dirt and over unearthed stoneworks with rodent-like speed.  At last, the sun sinking towards the west, Nariel extracted herself from under the canvas enclosure, stretching aching muscles and enjoying the evening breeze.  Path stod not far off, his eyes ever one the horizon.  She left behind the harsh sounds of Tavald's nasally reprimands, several pechs cowering around him, to join Path in his sentry.
"is it the nature of cauliba to be so cruel?" she asked Path as she reached him.
Path, a pipe clenched in between his teeth, gave her a small smile, "Ever full of questions aren't you, Nariel." he looked behind them to make sure they were well out of earshot from Tavald and any of his kin.  "I cannot say if, by their nature, they are cruel.  To say that the cauliban race was created to be mean and cold, made perhaps, to show man how not to be, is something I don't know.  Now, I have yet to meet a cauliban that takes joy from anything other than books, mathematical figures, mechanical inventions, and the plights of anyone but himself.  You could say that the culture of cauliba is one of cruelty: parents are harsh to their children; siblings are mean to each other; cauliban families are cruel to other cauliban families, and to everyone else.  Perhaps it is the way the cauliban mind works.  Or maybe it just a perpetuation of a legacy of callousness."
"They're such disgusting creatures!" Nariel exclaimed, "Little wonder they don't like anyone else; because no one else likes them.  Why is Tavald so mean to the pech workers?  The pechs are nothing but humble and simple."
Path took her arm to calm Nariel down, "Cauliba are all very intelligent and clever.  They have the minds of scholars and scientists, but the small bodies of pechs.  They could hate the pechs because maybe they envy the pechs' simpleness and contentment  this is why the cauliba have been so eager to enslave the pechs so and make them work so hard.  Pechs have large, tightly-bound families and a rich culture that binds them together.  The cauliba probably hate them for that."
"And what, cauliba hate men because they want our stature for their vast minds?"
Path chuckled, "That is what I have thought!  Yes, the way I see it cauliba are in limbo between mankind and pechs: they envy the stature of men so attempt to drag us down to their level via cruelty and envy the pechs because of their homeyness and so try to stamp it out by forcing them to labor."
Nariel stopped, eyes sweeping the empty vista spread before them.  A rapidly cooling evening wind moaned through the tall grass of the empty heath, dray stalk whispering with the passing of the wind.  The shroud of gras was disturbed by the periodic wrinkle; hills and gullies, slowly being blanketed by shadows, frowned back at Nariel.  Twisted trees with grasping branches stood in silent clusters on the edge of the heath, limbs creaking as if they were in some sylvan coven.  It was a barren, open place.  Nariel had yet to see signs of wildlife, or any life at all.
"We really are in the middle of nowhere, aren't we?" she asked Path.
"Let me show you something." Path led her farther away from the camp, "I found this while on patrol the other day."
They arrived at a small depression in the swath of wild grass.  Path bent down to pull away brown stalks to reveal smooth stones laid in the dirt.
"It looks like an old road to me," Path told her as he stood back up, "built maybe during the time of the kingdom of Balidaire, ro perhaps even before.  This barren void of a place used to have a highway through it, perhaps a town or city was somewhere nearby.  People used to either travel through here or live here.  Look at what Professor Tavald is digging up: the ruins of a lost citadel.  They may have been built at the same time, the road and the citadel.  Or maybe one was built long before the other.  This place may be nowhere now, but it was not always that way."
Path and Nariel, biding silent farewell to the road that now just ended in swaying grass rather than the gates of a city, returned to the camp as the sun–perhaps the only one that knew where that road had gone–sank slowly beneath the horizon.    

The Redemption of Viren

I, Viren Sorro, son to Lord Galba Sorro and Parthia Sorro, born 9,914 In the Year of the Empire on Londor, do here write down what befell Xadar Dromon and his loyal followers subsequent to our exile from the Gasha Order and the events leading to the death of our leader, Lord Dromon.  I and my companion, Nat Peilow, took the title Axath after our conquest of the primitive Dark Empire and the growth of the Axeum.

***

Viren huddled on the cave floor, cloak wrapped tight around him, slowly freezing to death.  A feeble bit of heat wafted across him from the few soaked twigs that had managed to catch fire.  His pack lay open and useless by his feet, the few supplies left were scattered on the icy floor.  His pulsblade, once a proud reminder of what he was, had been thrown into the darkness at the very back of the cave.  Qur, Viren's only loyal friend and an android, stood idly by the fire in attempt to keep his circuitry from also freezing.  Qur's eyes flickered on.  The blue orb blinked once, the Qur rolled himself next to his shivering master.

"I have received a transmission from the Holo.  It seems it concerns you."

Viren looked up at Qur, the human's face was ragged, tired by fighting and traveling, and unshaved, icy tracks ran down his cheeks, and his gray eyes had the glassy look of a man who had seen too much.  Viren rose with huge effort, an invisible burden weighing down his shoulders.

"Play it." Viren croaked.  He had not spoken in days.

Qur projected a hologram from his single eye, the image hanging in mid-air.  It showed a young woman with a newborn infant in her arms.

"It appears your wife has given birth, master." Qur said.

Viren stared at the hologram for minutes, the images reflected in his eyes, the reality of what he was seeing sinking in.

"Cantthra... gave birth?  A child?" fresh tears rolled down harrowed cheeks, "What is it: a boy or a girl?  Tell me!"

"A girl, master.  Myndorra Sorro, born on 3.20, 9,938 AI at 9 pounds and 6 ounces."

"Myndorra." Viren whispered.  He reached out to touch the hologram, only to have his fingers pass right through it, "We have a girl, Canthra, like you always wanted."

Viren doubled over, coughing violently into his hands.  Qur ended the projection; Canthra and Myndorra faded into the air.  Viren collapsed on the ground no longer strong enough to sit up.  He could feel death climbing up his fingers and through his frozen veins soon to reach his heart and forever separate him from his wife and daughter.  No, no, no, he couldn't die, not yet.  Viren placed his white hands on the cave floor, his fingers could no longer feel the cold of the ice, and pushed.  With a yell of effort that roared off the cave walls, Viren rose to his feet.

"Qur," he wheezed, "I'm going back."

***

I was in the Great Dasorium on the Capital, flushed with my triumph at ending the Rama Conflict.  Nat was with me in the Cenotaph Atrium as we were being welcomed by the Council and congratulated by our fellow knights.  With that boyish grin still plastered to his face, my friend Nat turned my attention to a party of three standing off by a statue detached from the celebrations.  It was Canthra Jan, an accomplished knight in her own right, discussing her recent return with Sirs Iodal Quigh and Xadar Dromon.  I had, before that, gone on several peacekeeping and investigative missions with Canthra Jan; as a Patrivian she was an expert diplomat, much better than I was, and a talented swordsman.  My look made Nat turn his attention elsewhere, though the grin stayed in the corners of his mouth.  I would not let my swell of emotions from my victory cloud my judgement and make me do some rash act.  Once I had properly greeted and been congratulated by all the assembled Gasha, I made my way over to where now only Canthra Jan and Master Dromon stood still talking over the details of her previous mission.  With an abrupt nod and a sweeping bow and jovial praise for me, Master Xadar Dromon left us.  As the atrium emptied of Gasha, Nat leaving to celebrate his return and ascension to knighthood with his family, Canthra and I passed pleasantries  each unwilling to discuss the obvious topic.  I felt like a boy again training on Kavos filled with the first flushes of manhood.  This, and the dark look hidden in her eyes kept me from making any advances.  She left, claiming she had other duties to attend to.  I was left alone in the dim atrium rather awkwardly.

Later, while making my way purposelessly to the festivities in Galactic Plaza, I was stopped from my brooding by Master Xadar Dromon.  I was very puzzled by this, for Sir Dromon was often preoccupied in the Council chambers or else locked away in his study.  I greeted him courteously enough with the respect due to a Gasha master, and he greeted me in a quite friendly manner.  He gave me more praise for my heroics and boldness, my prescient tactics and wisdom.  I was shocked a master such as Xadar Dromon was giving me so much attention.  I did not have a reply.  He then told me something that at first seemed so innocent, but haunted me the rest of the night.  He told me I deserved a seat on the Gasha Council, or a liaison to the Admiralty or some high rank, and that he wished to teach me personally of matters he had discovered in his studies.  My slight confusion gave way to pride and honor; that a master like Dromon wished to share some of his vast knowledge with me was more than I could've asked for.  I enthusiastically accepted his invitation, and he replied that that was exactly the attitude he expected: boldness and an eagerness to learn.  I went on my way to the grand party being held partly in my honor, my ego soaring to new heights up into the clouds above my reason.  I joined Nat as the focus of the celebrations when I arrived, with the Gasha Masters and the Emperor himself noting our noble services to the Galactic Empire.  The night, some 9 hours local time, blurred together in a haze of reveling, conversation, and consumption.  With my mind soaring over a sea of confidence, I, at some point during the night, ended up on a balcony overlooking a magnificent view of the Galactic Senate and Imperial Palace, but I was not looking at architecture that night but rather the face of Canthra Jan.  I let my desires, pulsing like the rap of a hammer through my diluted veins, take control during that night.  Our faces were so close as to be touching.

I awoke the next morning in my cell, amnesiac as to how I got there and most of the previous night.  I dressed quickly and reported back to the Council accompanied by a drunken Nat, who, I believe, had never even returned to his cell.  That was how Nat Peilow was.  After the debriefing Nat fled to solve the problem of how to cure a hangover while I stayed behind in the Dasorium, half hoping she was there, half not.  She was there.  Dressed ready for travel, she was still glowing from the night before.  We slowly found each other, both of us embarrassed by our closeness during the celebrations; I had not planned on making clumsy advances while intoxicated and egotistical.  I determined to do properly what I had done before.  I would have offered to accompany her on her new mission back to her home Patrivia, but–alas–I had a my first meeting with Xadar Dromon.  How much better would it have been if I had gone with my heart rather than my self?  How better the galaxy would have been?  How many lives spared?  I bade farewell to Canthra and dutifully marched to Master Dromon's study with a mind torn: torn between the secrets I was soon to learn or the woman I had left behind.  When I entered, Master Dromon rose quickly from his seat, a holoscreen vanishing into the air, to greet me with a friendly smile.  I hid my curiosity as to what he had been viewing.  We began my lessons in earnest; Master Dromon sat me down in a seat opposite from his.  I learned... so much, too much.  Most of what I learned I have since forced myself to forget, but while I was learning it, when I was a younger man, I absorbed it all thinking it not evil in any way.

Master Xadar and I delved into such arcane lore and ancient techniques, and my mind so eager, that soon I surpassed all my pears in knowledge and power.  Hours–days–I spent locked away with Master Dromon, preferring Canthra, when she was returned from her continual negotiations on Patrivia, and Nat's company second to Dromon's.  But as I grew in power, my mind I now realize, became weaker and weaker to Master Dromon's will.  Canthra Jan was absent during much of this time–I believe it was a year and a half at least–due to the tenuous situation in Patrivia.  I know now why the situation seemed to always return just when Canthra thought she had solved it and why Master Xadar was always bothered and impatient when she was around: he didn't want her distracting and diverting my mind.  I was granted the rank of Gasha Warden and made a counselor on the Emperor's own advisory council; as a Warden I was second only to the Gasha Council itself.  I am certain my master had a large role in my procuring these lofty positions.  When he believed my training sufficient and my mind properly his, Master Xadar Dromon revealed to me that I was not his only pupil, though I was his star student: he had in fact been training Nat Peilow in a similar manner and many other more feeble-minded Gasha.  He had also tried to persuade Canthra Jan to come under his wing, but she had refused.  He revealed many things to me that day, all of which should have made me turn on him in revulsion, but which instead led me more securely into his grip.  Though Nat was his other most powerful student, he said–truly–that I was the stronger and thus make sure Nat assumes his role of follower.  He said too that I would need to watch Nat warily at all times so he would not usurp my powers.  I'm sure now he poisoned Nat with similar words.  Thus ended mine and Nat's friendship.  Shaken but still loyal after these words, we studied and practiced for many, many more hours, Dromon finally nodding to signal me my training was complete: I was his full apprentice now.

Assured of my unwavering loyalty, Master Xadar initiated me as his first knight by revealing the ugly truth behind his secrecy and his power: he had, in his extensive studies, discovered a power, an intelligence, beyond what the Gasha called their Protector.  This intelligence had made contact with Xadar Dromon, choosing him as its disciple, giving new powers and forgotten secrets about the stars.  This being or entity he labelled with the name Charse.  A small part of my mind still yet free of Dromon's plague rebelled at this, realizing Dromon for what he was and also what was to happen to Canthra now.  I fled from Dromon, wishing at the same time to rescue Canthra from harm I knew was about to befall her and tell the Council the evil truth behind Master Xadar Dromon.  Both my wishes were granted at once; for as I was rushing through the Cenotaph Atrium with intent to go straight to the hangar, I came upon fathered members of the Council, Master Iodal Quigh was among them.  I pressured them to tell me what they had been discussing previous to my arrival; Master Iodal told me that Canthra Jan had, not an hour before, been taken hostage by the Patrivian government.  They were currently making threats on her life if the Imperial government did not start taking Patrivian demands seriously.  Horrified by the thought that I could not save Canthra, I hurriedly told them all the truth about Xadar Dromon.  Of course, none believed my tale.  Except Master Iodal: he looked in my eyes and saw the validity behind my words.  He also must have seen how far gone I was.  But I did not stay to see if they acted upon my claim or not, I flew straight to the hangar, boarded my ship, and jumped to Patrivia.  I arrived in a panic, pushing my way past the Patrivian port authorities and guards to the Embassy.  There I found Canthra Jan, wholesome and unharmed,  concluding matters with Jant Dajex, Lord Protector of the Patrivian systems.  I told Canthra all that had transpired, feeling very foolish while doing so, but my foolishness paid off.  After a conference with the masters, Canthra and I journeyed to my home Londor to be alone as we experienced the first days of marriage.

Those days... those days were the happiest one of my life.  I cannot put into words nor describe how blessed they were.  I was away from everything: from politics, from fighting, and most of all, from Master Dromon.  It was only my Canthra that I thought about.  Yet, yet there was that part of me still enthralled by what Master Xadar had to offer me.  And somehow finding out that Canthra's peril on Patrivia was only a fable meant that, perhaps, Master Dromon had no interest in her, not dark intent or ill will.  I was, of course, wrong.  Dromon knew that Canthra Jan was the one chink, the one ray of light, in the darkness he had shrouded my mind with.  Our time in paradise was short.  Before too long–much sooner than the end of our allotted time on Londor–a call came for Canthra Sorro to go not to Patrivia but the much more dangerous Corostis system.  Xadar Dromon was the author of this request, and he was such an eloquent speaker that he often got his way with things, especially since that Master Iodal was at that time distracted by dealing with issues on his native Nyrador V.  Canthra and I bade a sad farewell before she went to deal with the hostile Corost.

By myself now–a loathsome state of being–I decided on a whim to go back to Crux Terra to witness the trial of Master Xadar Dromon before the assembled Gasha masters and Imperial solons of the Galactic Supreme Courts.  I was filled with some desire to see this trouble caused by Master Dromon through to the end, but what I really would do was more terrible than anything Xadar had done to that point.  Why was I such a fool to go back into that twisted nest of lies constructed so intricately by my master?  How much better would things have been if I had simply stayed on Londor.  But, as I am still, I was a detestable wretch soaring once agin on updrafts of selfishness.  I arrived at the galactic capital and joined the masters in time to witness the heretic Dromon being lead under armed guard to the Council chamber.  He must have been planning everything, every action, and ever event, up to that moment.  He looked up to me, right into my eyes, as calmly as if we were back in his chambers learning together.  At that moment, Master Iodal, returned briefly to oversee the trial, received word that Corosti extremists had attacked and overwhelmed the Imperial Embassy.  Extremists that may have been, but I am sure they had Imperial credits behind them.  To add to the crisis, the Corostis government and Corosti Bannerets had done nothing to stop the attack.  Dromon almost had to hide his smile from me.  I knew what he would say before he spoke it, and when he did say; say that I knew how to save Canthra, that we knew how, that I had the power needed.              

Before anyone knew what was happening, Iodal was dead, my blade drawn.  Of all my actions, this is the one I regret the most.  I still awake in the midst of the night, cold with terror, the face of Iodal hanging in the air before me, my hands dripping, my body drenched, in his blood; his phantom his often joined by the twenty others I killed that day: twenty true Gasha Knights who did not even have the time to draw their swords.  On that day of slaughter, I was joined by Nat Peilow leading some of Dromon's disciples.  Soon the Dasorium atrium was flowing with Gasha blood.  While I went about the slaughter in a state of dark duty, Nat, once my apprentice, took a perverse delight in the blood of his fellow knights, in the way their bones broke and skin split open, in the way their blood tasted in his mouth and their screams felt in his ear.  Imperial Marines were ordered to aid the Gasha Knights fight back the heretics, but Runan Geminus, a prominent senator and leading member of the Emperor's council and Dromon's friend, held the marines back, wanting to see who came out victorious before taking action.  When all but the young or submissive knights remained, Xadar entered the Council chamber, throwing out all the seats but one.  Xadar Dromon announced to the Senate that a small but well trained number of the Gasha had betrayed the order, killing such revered masters as Iodal Quigh and slaughtering many others.  Conveniently, the Gasha who had, according to Dromon's story, risen up were all from or tied closely to the Corost Independency.  Marines were sent in to verify the Dromon's report; after their sweep, the Senate acknowledged the story and recognized Xadar Dromon as the only surviving member of the Gasha Council on Crux Terra.

Without receiving my master’s blessing, I jumped for Corost emblazoned by fury, ready to unleash upon the Corosti what I had given the Gasha.  When I arrived, the Corosti demanded, pleaded, that I stop my ship immediately.  They had learned of the battle in the Dasorium from Sir Doril Quy-Jel, a Corosti Gasha who had survived the slaughter.  Landing recklessly, I crashed my ship into the ground, causing much damage to nearby buildings.  Knowing me for what I was, common citizens hid themselves in their dwellings as I swept by.  I stormed the place they were holding Canthra in, no amount of pleading officials or Corosti Bannerets could dissuade me; I pushed through all of them.  I kept my sword sheathed, for it was not their blood I ached for, but that of those extremists who held my Canthra.  They had hidden themselves and Canthra in an old quarter of the governmental palace.  I turned over the building in my search, tearing apart room after room hoping each next one would hold my Canthra.  Even if I had not been probing the building with my mind, the ambush of mercenaries would have been slaughtered all the same.  I retraced their path back to the secret vault where I met a small division of the extremists.  I unleashed upon them such fury as they had never seen; surely they did not know what was to befall them when they accepted Dromon's credits.  Once I had put all those wretches to death, I found to my horror that Canthra was not there at all, only her diplomatic companions were there bound.  My rage overwhelmed me: my fury burned greater than any fire, I was at that moment ready to wreak such destruction as to devastate the city in its entirety.  I was nearly blinded by whatever and anger that I only just saw the looks of pure horror on those bound faces; my rage cooled just enough that I then noticed the dents and ruptures on the walls and the cracks spreading like a spider's web in the floor.  A voice not unlike Canthra's I suddenly heard whisper a contorting phrase in my head, at once making me feel surer of her safety and greatly ashamed.  I then caught an image of myself reflected in the smooth side of a column: I saw dark eyes lidded with guilt, a man full of anger, back bent by hatred's weight.  Was this the man Canthra had married?  Not pausing to think that they were my professed enemies or not I freed those bound Imperials and besought of them where Canthra had been taken.  They did not know.  They all fled from me after that and no more did I see them.  Blind to where my feet were taking me, I came outside onto the plaza

When I was returned, my master Dromon assured me that Canthra was safe, but going through intensive healing and thus unreachable at the moment.  Still determined to see my wife for myself, I once again took my place beside my master as we prepared to go meet the Kavosian Gasha in battle.  The ruling Gasha Council on ancient Kavos had demanded Xadar Dromon step down as Gasha master on Crux Terra or else be forcibly removed and tried.  He chose the latter; he gathered together all his followers, together led by himself, Nat, and me, we went to meet the Kavosian Gasha on the fields of Cliath.  I searched the battlefield for an opponent equal to or greater than myself in the hopes, perhaps, to vindicate my actions: if I prevailed, I must have been fighting for a noble cause, but if he prevailed, I would know I was in error.  Again the Imperial government held back, wanting to see who would come out victorious from this conflict.  We prevailed there on Cliath and at many other battlefields.

Xadar Dromon renamed the Great Dasorium the Axeum, a temple dedicated to his dread god, and called himself the Axath, the master of the temple.  War continued to rage between Kavos and its ally Tystus, ancient Gasha worlds, and our Axeum.  Axath Dromon corrupted many Gasha Knights to his side, even gaining the aid of the dasorium on Sekhotep.  Nat Peilow and I took the titles Axath as well and continued to serve our master faithfully through the bloody war.  While I did indeed serve my master faithfully, Nat was the most ambitious of us two–my lust for power being tempered with a dark melancholy.  Nat soon assumed the master’s role among him, myself, and the other disciples of Dromon.  In our quest to bring the Gasha Order on the right path to power, we ravaged settlements and conquered worlds, destroyed space stations, and spilt much blood; most of it innocent.  All this while I kept wondering deep inside myself where my Canthra was.  My master–at that point grown very powerful and very evil–kept soothing me with words of comfort, claiming that Canthra was safe, but I was far to busy to have time to visit her.  Like a dog that knows it will be beaten if it nudges its master too often, I obeyed my master and continued doing his dark errands for him.

At last the final confrontation between the Gasha and our Axeum came, though none knew it at the time.  Axath Xadar, Nat, and myself were leading the majority of our fleet into the Rhynon Nebula from which we would launch surprise assaults on the nearby Gasha outposts.  As it would happen, a Gasha Knight happened to scout into the nebula and spot us from a distance.  Soon he was joined by the gathered might of the Gasha Order and a furious space battle ensued.  I, in my fighter, destroyed many good Gasha Knights.  Our flagship was attacked, taking heavy damage, and soon chaos erupted as it was boarded.  In the thick of warning lights, klaxons, clashing swords, and raised voices, I felt a familiar and long sought presence: Canthra’s.  She was near, in the Gasha fleet.  Dromon hadn’t known where she was for this entire period.  He had been lying to me, as he had from the very beginning.  To me and to everyone.  My mind suddenly saw the truth that Dromon had blinded me to.  I was free.  

His back was turned to me, watching not his loyal underlings but the Gasha trying to force access to the bridge.  I knew what had to be done.  Drawing my sword that was so stained with Gasha blood, I struck down my master then and there.  He fell dead amongst the harried figures of his lesser disciples; some froze, shocked; others drew theirs swords on me, quickly following their master into the void.  The Gasha stormed into the bridge, sparing none: Axath Nat, now master of the Axeum, fled in an escape pod with several of his followers.  I remained only long enough to kill those the Gasha could not, and then I too, fled.

With Dromon dead and Nat and I vanished, an Imperial fleet arrived and aided the Gasha in sweeping the remnants of the Axeum away; the fleet was destroyed and a combined force of knights and marines stormed the axeums on Crux Terra and Sekhotep.  Axath Nat and his small band of followers drifted into deep space, away from the Galactic Empire, in search of the Dark Empire Axath Xadar had told them of.  And I, I gathered what meager supplies I could, and went into exile on an uninhabited planet on the Imperial Rim with only Qur, my loyal android, my only follower.       

Seeking a Master

"Oric-El?  Oric-El Ged?" Reiva Caserta took another step into the empty chamber, holding her sword shakily in front of her.  She was alone, except for her echoes.

Another step forward; she set her boots down as quietly as she could, but still there was a dull click off the hard floor, the sound repulsed off dusty statues and the dark ceiling high above her.  A noise scraped through the darkness, a noise other than her steps.  Reiva turned towards the noise, or where she thought it came from, sword thrust out in front of her.  The cutting edge of her weapon lit up bright blue, adding some light to the gloom and warning that the sword was now lethal.

Reiva kept the open doors to her back, letting the rectangle of gray light seep into the dark room in front of her.  The light was meager but it gave her some comfort.  She was also careful to always keep the opening in her peripheral vision; she didn't want something or someone getting between her escape route with out her knowing.

"Oric-El!" she called again.

The statues veiled in cobwebs gave no reply.  Nothing stirred in the chamber.  The fountains stood empty, the upturned chairs and broken chandeliers lay covered in decay, even the wind whispering in from the open doors seemed to lie still.  Reiva lowered her sword so she could see better, trying desperately to find what she had come so far for.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

Reiva tensed, forcing herself not to jump or gasp, her knuckles white as she squeezed the hilt of her sword.  Blood trickled from where her teeth and sunk into her lower lip.  The sword was back up into the guard position, her hands no longer shaking.  Though her heart was definitely shaking.       Reiva's eyes were trying desperately to pierce the gloom, to stop an attacker she knew must be there.  A shadow moved on the edge of her vision.  Reiva looked up.  A shadow, darker than the shadows around it, stood on a balcony many meters in front of her.

"If you've come to kill me, you've done a pretty bad job of going about it." said the shadow.

Three remaining lights of a chandelier flickered on, feebly attempting to fill the cavernous room with their orange light.

Oric-El Ged stood on the balcony above Reiva.  His eyes were dark, his face, set like iron, was framed by dusty brown hair streaked with storm gray.  His sword was sheathed and rested on his shoulder.  She took a shuddering breath, hoping the scowling eyes above her didn't see, before composing herself.  Holding her head hugh and sword firmly in her hands, Reiva looked Oric-El in the eyes as she adressed him.

"I am not here to kill you, Master Oric–"
"Ha!" Oric-El interrupted her with a barking laugh, "'Master Oric-El'?  Here we are on a desolate world far from the Empire, and yet you, girl, persist on civility."

"I meant no disrespect, Master Ged–

"Please, call me Oric-El.  It was what my mother called me, and since you and her are both women, I suppose it is appropriate." Oric-El sneered.

"–it's just I have come very far to–"

"Far!?  You come here to complain to me how far you've come?  I can tell you a thing or two about far!" Oric-El spat down at her.

"–ask for your help." Reiva held her mounting frustration in as Oric-El's sour complexion continued to spoil, "See, my name is Reiva–"

"Bah!" shouted Oric-El, waving his hand, "Leave now, Reiva, if you know what's good for you!  Now I'm not sure how you found me or why you have obviously stolen your father's pulsblade.  Now go: I have no interest in you." Oric-El turned his back on her.

"Caserta!" she screamed, her anger and pent up emotions pouring out, "Reiva Caserta!  Daughter of Avar and Quomi Caserta!  And this is my own pulsblade, I have enough of a conscience not to steal, even from my parents.  Unlike you!"

Reiva immediately regretted saying the last part.

Oric-El Ged turned back around slowly.  His eyes–when Reiva finally looked up at them–were devoid of any emotion, his face unmoving.  Oric-El seemed to ponder what she had just said for several minutes while at the same time examining her, studying her stance, her breathing, the way she held her weapon.  Reiva swallowed hard and readjusted her grip on her sword.

When he finally spoke, Oric-El's voice was quiet, almost soft, "Caserta?  That is a name I know well.  What is the daughter of heroes doing here on Vaaherdon?  What do you want of Oric-El Ged?"

"I want you to train me!" Reiva said, her relief tangible; finally, after all her trials, she had made it to the point.  

Oric-El's eyes, like the tip of a sword, glinted as they suddenly focused on her.

"No." his reply echoed coldly among the stone buttresses.

"But you don't understand!  I have to be trained: my mother needs me!" All of her relief was washed away.  Was Oric-El really that inimical?

"No is no, young Reiva Caserta."

"But–but why?"

"Because," Oric-El turned back around, "I don't want to.  I swore never to take another apprentice."

"So... so you won't train?" Reiva let her pulsblade hang limply at her side.

"How else shall I put it than 'no'?  You are a girl with a sword to big for her; leave, and find some other master."

"But there is none!  None of your skill at least.  You're Oric-El Ged; you mastered Tosai style when you were twenty!  You and–"

Oric-El's face was before hers, his eyes and hard face filling her vision.  The balcony stood empty, fifteen meters of empty air between where Reiva was and it.

"Leave." Oric-El's breath was hot as it washed over Reiva's face, "There's the door."

The doors opened outwards all by themselves.  Reiva furtively looked up into Oric-El's eyes; they flashed, challenging her to disobey him.  Reiva took a step backwards, eyes downcast.  She spun around and crammed her sword back in its sheath, then left through the doors out into the cold wind.  Reiva Caserta gave the ruined building one last look before trudging back to her ship, angrily wiping tears from her eyes.

Her ship was in sight.  The familiar colors and lights of what had become her mobile home brought no comfort to her though.  Reiva was empty.  She was at a loss, out of ideas, at a dead end.  Going to Oric-El Ged was a gamble, she knew, but she had hoped–like a fool–that he would train her.  Now she saw why he was an exile.  Suddenly the snow under her right boot gave way and her foot slid into a tiny crevasse   Rock bit painfully into her leg as she tugged and pulled, her breath steaming in the cold as she gave an angry yelp.  She heard a crunch of snow somewhere behind.  Reiva strained her neck as she probed the white rolls of hills behind her, at the same time snatching at the handle of her pulsblade.  Then she saw him.  Coming from the direction of the ruined plaza was Oric-El Ged, naked sword blade glinting in the gray light.  Heart beating like a hammer against her chest, Reiva pulled desperately at her sword; the awkward angle she was at because of her trapped leg made this hard.  Oric-El was almost upon her when her pulsblade finally slid into her hand.  And just in time, too.  Sparks flew into the snowy air as Reiva blocked Oric-El's chop meant to cleave her in half.

"What are you doing!?" Reiva screamed.

The answer she got was a sword blade along her side, opening a slit in her side that stained the snow red.  Oric-El's pulsblade wasn't glowing, otherwise the the sword stroke would've cut right through her.  His eyes flashed as he swung his sword up to come at her again.  Reiva merely reacted by thrusting the point of her unactivated pulsblade at his legs before angling it up to parry his chop.  Sparks stung her hand where their blades met.

"Smart," Oric-El said calmly, "but what if I do this?" He kicked a spray of snow into her eyes.

Reiva tried to block her eyes with her left hand but was too slow.  Blinded, she slashed her sword in front of her and over her head hoping to either give Oric-El a slash or intercept an incoming attack.

She heard Oric-El clicking his tongue off to her left, "Tsk tsk, Caserta, lashing out recklessly?  Deprived of your sight you should have listened and assumed a ready guard position."

"Master, please, what are you doing!?" Reiva cried out, angrily flinging the snow off her face.  She tried to twist towards her left to face Oric-El, the convenient crevasse restricting her.

"Evaluating." he idly cut falling snowfalkes as he gave her this single word.

"Evalutating?  Evaluating... me?"

Oric-El looked around with exaggerated attention, "I see no one else."

"So you changed your mind?" Reiva said, hope beginning to built up inside her chest.

"One could say that.  At first I wasn't sure, but once we got to talking and I found out you were a Caserta and your level of tenacity, I wanted to test you; see what you could do, what improvements you needed.  Definitely not your father are you?"

"I... suppose not." Reiva wasn't exactly sure if that was a criticism or merely an observation.

Without warning, Oric-El brought the flat of his blade crashing into the side of Reiva's head, sword flying out of her hand.  Her vision flickered out for a moment, everything covered in a black screen, as pain rocketed through her skull made worse by the severe cold.  She felt hot blood dribbling down her neck and along her back.  The pain, while sharp, was still only a shaking throb.  It would get bad in a couple of seconds.  Reiva clamped her mouth shut as she release a suppressed scream from her throat.

"What was that for!" she was able to force the words past her lips.  The pain was getting worse, radiating out from the stripe on the side of her head like burning fingertips pressing against her skull.

"Not expecting it."

Reiva's vision flashed again and she realized her ear was still ringing, the sound of the blow reverberating a thousand times inside her eardrum.  Oric-El stuck his sword in the snow.

"Well, I have to say I'm a little disappointed in you, young Caserta, I would have expected more from Avar and Quomi's daughter.  But I am a perfectionist; we will make a swordsman out of you yet.  First let's get you out of this hole.  Always be aware of your environment, young Caserta."

Oric-El gripped both of Reiva's upper arms and pulled her free with no great effort.  Reiva stayed lying in the snow, cradling the damaged side of her head in her arms.  Blood fell down to stain the snow in a ring of droplets.  Pulling up and sheathing his own sword, Oric-El picked up her pulsblade, flipping it around to offer her the hilt.  Reiva, with a trembling hand reached up and grasped it.

"Come, it's getting dark, we should go back inside, and see to that blood ear of yours."  With that, Oric-El Ged turned around and began trudging back to the abandoned. atrium without a backwards glance.

Reiva leaned on her pulsblade as she pulled herself slowly to her feet.  So, this was it.  She had accomplished her goal.  Oric-El Ged was going to train her.  Then why did she feel so sick?  Reiva looked at Oric-El's receding back then at her waiting ship.  No, there was no letting herself go back now, not after all she'd been through to get here, even if "here" was cold and painful.

Reiva Caserta, sheathing her pulsblade, looked one last time at her starship before following the footsteps of her new master, the evening wind throwing snow all around as the sun set behind her.         

The Rise of Man

God came to Ourano-Kal'es as he rested under his pavilion, and God said:
"Ourano-Kal'es, rise, what do you see?"
Ourano-Kal'es rose quickly from his rest and gazed up at the sky.
"I see the stars and ever-moving planets, my Lord."
"I have given the universe to you and your kin.  Go, you shall have dominion over every star and every planet; every nebula is yours to explore and every arm of the galaxy is yours to inhabit.  So long as you and your sons keep my Word, it shall be so."
"As You say, so shall it be." Ourano-Kal'es replied, "I and my sons shall keep your Word, as You know we do, but how will we reach out and touch the stars?"
And God said, "Build a boat not of wood, but of metal and stone and fire and you and your kin will reach the distant stars.  But I warn you, do not stray into the heart of the galaxy, for there things dwell that are not meant for you.  The rest of the galaxy is yours to seed.  Fill it with your descendants and seed life where you please."
Ourano-Kal'es promised he would do as God has said and bowed his head in thanks.  And so it was that Ourano-Kal'es and his sons and his sons' sons and all their people built a vessel not to ply waters, but the speckled void between the stars.  They spread out from their homeworld in every direction, settling on any world that pleased them; every nebula to them was as a wall of mist, every planet and solar system were but islands, and the stars were like grains of sand to them.  The galaxy was theirs to steward over, and all life was theirs to guard and shape in their own image.  Yet in all this, Ourano-Kal'es and his and his sons' sons kept their word with God and never strayed into the heart of the galaxy, where it was not safe for their kind.
But the time came when Saturos-Más gathered together all his kin and all the races of the worlds before him and said, "All power has been given to us so we may steward over the universe.  We have become like gods.  God told our forefathers never to stray into the heart of the universe; but that was ages past.  Now we are stronger than they and more numerous than the stars with the strength to reshape worlds.  So come, let us gather our strength-every vessel and ship, every man and soldier–and gain even the very core of the universe."
And so all the strength of man flew in the murky core of the galaxy and uncovered the secrets that lay there.  Saturos-Más and all the powers of men gathered there partook of the knowledge found there, and they realized that they were naked in spirit and the truths of the heavens and all the worlds fell before them.  Man turned on man as all the powers of men tried to destroy each other in their madness.  Worlds were put to flame and solar systems were rent to pieces  in the destruction a great force was unleashed upon man: the C'gha.
They fed on stars and nebulae, devouring anything in their path.  Man fought against them in desperate battles; the very stars were quenched with the blood spilled by the sons of men and planets were cracked open as if they were eggs.  The strength of men found too late how to imprison the C'gha under more than rock and metal.  The universe was choked by the ash of a hundred thousand worlds and man retreated to whence he came, broken and devoid of knowledge, not being able to tell his left hand from his right.  And there man stayed, the C'gha a forgotten nightmare sealed away beyond the stars.

Through the Looking Glass

The blades of the ceiling fan rotated lazily, doing little to lift the heat filling the room.  It was small, the room, with only a single light bulb hanging from the chipped ceiling, giving cheap, yellow light to the filing cabinets  along the bare walls and to the crowd of men in the center of the room.  They had him tied to the chair.  Two of the men stood behind the chair, casting their big shadows across him, while three others towered in front.  Blood ran out of the corner of his mouth and his left eye had been turned a meaty purple from its previous date with a fist.  First one's always the hardest.

"Know I don't know who you are," the boss said, crouching down in front of him, "but you ain't welcome here, stranger, this is our territory.  Now, you mind telling me who you are?  You keep staying quiet and I'll let Tommy take over, and he's not much of a talker himself."

The boss's face was hidden behind a mask of shadows with only the glowing butt of a cigarette casting the faintest orange light on his mouth.  Strands of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, gathering like a wreath around the light.  He, the man in the chair, spat blood on the floor.

"I'm a detective, my business is confidential." he spat.

A fist smashed into his jaw.

"I know that, Einstein!" the boss snapped, "And quite a detective you are: a magnifying glass, handgun, and a notebook full of gibberish.  Oh yes, and that pocket watch.  I suppose at least that will fetch some cash."

"I'm a special detective." the man in the chair said with a chuckle.

Another fist became acquainted with the skeletal structure of his face.

"Quit the garbage   Who are you and why ere you snooping though my property?  I won't ask again." the boss leaned forward, his voice like a razor in the man's ears.

"Alright, fine." the man in the chair spat out more blood, "They call me the Finder.  I'm a detective of a very special caliber; so special in fact, I'm the only one.  There's a certain item in your possession that is of interest to me.  That satisfy you?"

"The mirror?" the boss growled, "What do you want the mirror for?"

"It once belonged to one Abigail H. White.  She was murdered some time ago; the mirror is important in the case.  It's police property now, you have to hand it over."

The cigarette glowed orange, smoke streaming past the boss's face as he sat, peering silently at the Finder.

"That's a load of bull, and you know it." the boss spat in the Finder's face, "I told you I wouldn't ask again."

"And I think I've had enough of this." the Finder said with a smirk.

"What?" the boss exclaimed, rising to his feet in surprise.

The Finder shucked off the handcuffs keeping entrapped in the cair like one shakes water off one's hands.  He kicked the boss in between the legs and sent him sailing across the room, knocking the two goon behind him to the floor.  The Finder picked up the chair, swinging it around his head like a hammer, and smashed it into the two men behind him.

"I picked the cuffs while one of your boys was giving me a makeover.  I'll just be taking the mirror know." the Finder said, tossing the cuffs on top of the boss's heaving chest, wiping blood from his cheek with his other hand.

"Who– what are you?" the boss gasped.

"A traveler from another dimension."

The boss's face was made uglier by the expression of confusion.

"What?" he gaped.

The Finder slammed a leg of the chair into the boss's thick skull, knocking consciousness from it.  The Finder strode over to the desk, picking up his sparse effects: his coat, hat, magnifying glass, and book.  He pulled the coat on, wrapping himself in its worn familiarity; he tucked the book, watch, and magnifying glass away in their particular pockets, then stepped back over to the boss.  The mirror was tucked safely inside the boss's coat.  The Finder relieved the sleeping man from the possession; the mirror was too effeminante for him anyway.  The Funder slipped out of the building into the fog-bound streets; he watched his back carefully as he slid past one building after another, the life on the streets having taught him to keep an eye behind him.  The Finder checked his pocket watch, the silver gleaming in the dark fog like a pearl in the ocean, popping open the scratched lid.

It was nearly six o'clock.

The Finder hurried down the street, past the shadowy forms of people, towards the train station like a hulking behemoth in the distance.  The Finder stopped at a telephone booth; he stepped inside, checked the fog outside, then rang the special number.  The Watcher's voice came crackling into his ear.

"Finder?  That you?"

"Yeah, I got the Anomaly.  What time was the train?"

"Six fifteen."

"Damn!  I'll be late, I–"

A spotlight pierced through the shroud of black fog, landing on the telephone booth.  An alarm filled the thick air.

"Gotta go!" the Finder shouted, slamming the phone back home.

He ran from the booth, the spotlight searching for him through the fog all while the alarm filled the drab street suddenly devoid of people.  He found the steps leading into the station just as he heard the loud sounds of pursuit coming, rushing, down the street towards him like a river.  He flew inside, pushing past crowds of stunned individuals: the train was starting to leave the station.  The Finder ran down the platform, his pursuers coming down the stairs to the platform.  The Finder grabbed onto the caboose, pulling himself on with a grunt: he was on the train.  He slipped inside the caboose as it left the station behind it in the fog, the mirror in his hands.

"That was too close." he said.    
    

The Pariah

There is nothing in the endless void of blackness and stars; only the silent dance of suns and planets with only the intermissions of comets and asteroids.  Even after Man built the first spaceship the greatness that is space was affected little.  The ugly behemoths of carbosteel and pig tin scuttle from star to star, delivering goods, picking up deliveries, or deploying troops.  The stars and twisting planets take very little notice of this interstellar network, though, the achievements of Man have changed very little about the universe.  Or at least that's how it was before the war...

***  

Galen's eyes snapped open, the strange dreams of deep space retreating into the dark corners of his mind and the usual chill creeping from his limbs.  He sat up, rubbing his head, blinking artificial sleep from his eyes.  The blue light in his chamber was blinking accompanied by the honking alarm.  He grumbled, placing a scarred hand on the white plastic wall of his small, tubular chamber as he pulled on underpants in no particular hurry.  There was a small screen and keyboard next to the door of his chamber, he strode over and punched a button; the screen popped into life.  First there was static, then an image of Ophelia waved into life.

"Galen!" barked the speaker with a crackle, "Get the fek to your station!  We're four klicks out.  Over."

With a pop, the screen was black once more.  The alarm silenced and the light returned to a steady yellow glare.  With a sigh, Galen brushed ice crystals from his hair and pushed the button to the door.  It slid open with a shrill hiss and he stepped out into the hall.  The corridor was long but narrow, like almost everything on the ship, with a row of pneumatic white doors lining one side and lockers on the other.  It was the resting quarters for the crew of the Pariah.  There were only about ten or twelve hands on the ship, though.  The doors of the other engineers slid open as well; Clarke stumbled into the corridor farther down and Tet soon followed.  Kelly came out of her chamber one door down; when she saw Galen she gave him that shy smile she usually gave him and crossed over to her locker.  Galen walked across the cold metal grates of the floor to his own locker.  The melted ice droplets clung to his skin refusing to drip down onto the floor.  Gravity must be light Galen thought as he pulled on his under-suit composed of a thin rubbery unitard, then he covered himself in his uniform and boots.  He turned around to look at the the progress of his fellow engineers as he buckled on his utility belt.  Tet was ready and attentive, Kelly was finishing tying her hair up, and Clarke was still yanking on his uniform.  Galen started giving out his orders anyway.

"Engineers, we are four klicks fron rendezvous point.  Tet, Kelly, you come with me, we'll replace Damon and Marc in the Engines.  Clarke, once you're ready, head to the bridge.  Understood?"

"Yes sir!" they all said.

Galen led Tet and Kelly down the dim hallways down into the guts of the Pariah to the Engine Room.  Clarke headed for the bridge on the other end of the ship.  When Galen and his crew reached the Engines, an exhausted Marc greeted him.

'Chief, finally!  About trajing time!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Shift's over, Marc, go get some sleep." Galen said to him.

Damon, tossing his goggle to the side, came out of the Engine Room hatch.

"Shift done?  I've been awake too long, it's time for a nap." he said as he and Marc headed away towards the resting quarters.     

"Alright, people, let's get to work." Galen ordered as he pulled googles over his head and stepped into the Engine Room, "I want this girl to hold together when we dock.  Kelly, can you get that screen to show the Guider feed?"

"Sure thing, Chief." she said.

Kelly stepped up on a pipe, wrenching open a pannel on the wall and began splicing wires as Galen and Tet oversaw the smoking behemoth that was the engine.

"Got it!" Kelly called as she put that pannel back in place and jumped down from the pipe.

The screen hanging from the low ceiling beam blinked into life with the blue information screen of the Guider.  In the center was the grid showing the empty space surrounding the Pariah; in the bottom were the stream of jargon useful only to the Guider and the pilots; in the upper right corner was the number of klicks from their targeted destination.

"Three klicks, sir, should we give her a push?" Tet said.

"Sure, let's speed this up.  I'd say push it up to 2500." Galen said, eyes still on the screen.

Tet punched a code and some data into a keyboard, then cranked on a gear to charge up the engine more.  Steam hissed through some pipes overhead.

"Good, two and a half klicks now.  Almost time for the hailing call.  Kelly, audio work on this?" Galen called over to Kelly.  Kelly was a skilled electrician and computer engineer as well as a starship mechanic, one of the few onboard able to understand the streams of command-line programming of the shipboard computers.

"Should be working, Chef." she said to him.

Two klicks now; the speakers crackled as Halon's voice– the ensign– blared through them.

"Starcarrier Celestine, this is the C.S.G.E. Pariah, clearance o-seven-seven-niner, requesting to dock, please respond.  Over."

They waited for a response to come crackling back; nothing.

"I can see them, why aren't they responding?" Tet said, looking at the large dot on the screen.

Halon repeated his message, but still now response came.

"We're just a click away." Galen said, "The Guider should be able to see her by now.  Kelly, reboot the feed!"

Kelly dashed away and fiddled with more wires.  The screen wavered, flickered, then changed to a live view of the void in front of the Pariah.  The three engineers stood beneath the screen; eyes wide and staring.  Kelly gave out a gasp.  The might that was the Starcarrier Celestine, one of the largest and most powerful class of ships in the galaxy, was strewn out across the space before them in shredded pieces.  The bodies of the hundreds of inhabitants floated among the wreckage.

"What the fek could do this to a Starcarrier?  Who would do it?" shouted Galen.

A light burst into life and a klaxon blared through the corridors: the captain wanted them all on the bridge.

     ***

Spacers were created by the Colonial government to be able to survive the harsh conditions and long years of space travel.  They were altered to be able to withstand cryostasis and to only need the barest amount of nutrients to live.  Spacers, it is rumored among the Colonies, don't age, but this has yet to be proved.  Spacers are treated with suspicion and mistrust by the Colonials the rare times Spacers have interactions with Colonials.  The Governance uses Spacers as pilots of freighter ships, mining vessels, and naval battlecruisers.  The only ships not operated by the mysterious Spacers are the Starcarriers; the pride of the Colonies and the key to Man's future.