The Warrior (The Rebellion) (4 page)

C H A P T E R 8

Krean

Aaron's family lived in the middle of Krean, a small city that had suffered little change over the years. It was placed just inside the Shrawn mountain range that bordered the west side of the Valley. The mountains loomed over the city providing the population with a stunning view. The mountain's snowy sides rose up far into the clouds where their peaks were obscured from view. Newcomers were easily recognized since they could be seen gazing at mountains, which had become a commonplace feature for the townsfolk. Sometimes, Barst would pensively stare at these monstrosities, and watch as the sun vanished behind them, causing Krean to fall into an early night.

After eating, Barst had changed into a loose and comfortable tunic and had headed out into the city on his own. The storm had cleared up and the streets were full of people who were enjoying a reprieve from all the rain. A clean and pure smell had filled the air, and puddles had gathered in the streets, bringing end-less amusement to the children.

Barst dodged a stampede of these little ones as he made his way down the stone streets. Despite his best efforts, he continually found himself searching the streets for Her. Even though she hadn't been on the forefront of his mind of late, she had been hiding in his thoughts, only to jump out now, when he was alone and free to his own musing.

A slight fringe of dark hair would make him excited only to disappoint when the suspect turned out to be someone else entirely. Occasionally, Barst found himself craning his neck to look over the crowed to catch sight of a face whose voice sounded slightly like Her’s. After realizing his own folly, Barst tried to force his
mind on to something else, but to no avail. Nothing else seemed to be as important or as captivating as his vague yet enchanting recollections of Her.

Finally, at the fringe of the city, the throngs died out and Barst had no face to search for Her likeness. His thoughts began to wander elsewhere, but were cut short when he came around a small hill, and was encountered by the line of trees that made up the edge of the forest at the base of the mountain range.

The forest was composed mainly of huge, dark pine trees that seemed to guard the way to the mountain. Their wide trunks formed a virtual wall that was only broken by a small dirt trail that squeezed its way through these large behemoths. Silence was the only sound to be heard from the foreboding barrier, and, as always, it gave Barst goose bumps.

Barst paused for a moment before entering into the forest. Then, shaking off his hesitation, he plunged into the woods. The shade cast by the trees kept the air cool for Barst, so he quickened his pace and soon rounded a turn that concealed his destination.

Tucked into the forest, a little off the path, sat a log cabin of the more masculine style. No flowers or plants surrounded it, and the walls were made of a dark wood that probably originated from the equally shadowy trees around it. A sign hung above the doorway which bluntly stated LODGE.

Barst arrived at the door and entered to encounter a deep, musty air. He walked across the empty room that was filled with dark, solid wood furniture to the counter made of the same substance.

Behind the counter, mounted on the wall, was a rack filled with bows of every size and shape. Barst admired the collection for a second before scanning the room behind the counter for the owner. Looking back and forth and seeing no one, Barst coughed and rapped loudly on the counter. A cry resounded from somewhere in the rooms behind the counter, and then out stepped Horge.

Horge was a short and broad man, who was also beginning to develop a belly. His forehead was creased and the glossy shine of sweat covered his skin. He wiped his hands off on his smudged apron as he greeted Barst with a polite smile.

"Want your weapon?"

"Aye, where are the others?"

Horge turned around to a rack behind him that held the frightening show of bows.

"They’re either hunting or on in their beds trying to heal."

Barst raised his eyebrows, his curiosity piqued. "What happened?"

"Oh you know. Hear a rustling. Cock a bow. Shoot a hunter. That sort of thing. Good thing I’m a healer or he might have died. The shot was right in the ribs."

Barst nodded, remembering that Hodge was a magician. He also had heard that the man wasn’t too good at the craft.

Barst, like everyone, had learned at a very young age that everyone had the potential to wield magic, but only a few could excel in it. Everyone had to take an aptitude test when they turned seven to see if they had any future potential in the art. Barst had promptly failed and been sent home. One of his classmates wasn’t so lucky. He had passed and had been whisked away to some academy in the capital, leaving behind his sobbing parents.

Some people who failed didn’t take it so lightly. Barst remembered a few of his townsfolk who had left for the city to find a tutor to help them develop skill in the magical arts. These usually turned into out-of-shape, and useless men. Their conversations usually orbited around on how exhausting magic was, and how much pain they had to endure while pursuing their "dream."

"Sounds like a bad one," Barst replied as he reached over the counter to take his bow.

"Aye it was," replied Hodge, pocketing the coin Barst slid to him.

Barst grabbed a sheath of arrows that was hanging on a rack on the wall and walked out the door. Outside, Barst looked up and, judging by the light he could see through the trees, he decided he had about three hours until the sun went be
hind the mountains. Lucky for him, the forest was packed with game. He decided that he would hunt by the creek, and began walking.

The fallen pine needles provided a soft cushion that muffled his foot falls as he swiftly made his way to lower ground. He kept himself on high alert.
Don’t want to
be shot by a fellow hunter. Hodge would probably kill me before he even stopped the bleeding.

Soon he could discern the trickling of water through the damp air and Barst began to look for a suitable tree to climb. A little further on, he found the ideal oak and clipped his bow onto his belt. After a few stretches, he grabbed onto the solid bark and began to work his way up using only his fingers. His hands soon burned and his muscles ached, but Barst enjoyed the challenge. It also helped his fitness, which was an imperative attribute for a fighter.

By the time he finally reached a high but solid branch, his arms were tingling from the exertion, and he had begun panting. He sat on top of the wide branch and leaned against the tree trunk until he was able to regulate his breathing. When he felt his heart rate return to normal, Barst strung his bow and took in the small gully above which he was positioned. A small creek trickled through the gorge that was spotted with small shrubs, which provided cover for the small lizards that could occasionally be heard rustling within. A thick wall of bushes and small trees had formed a line on the other side of the tree, giving Barst only one field to face. He settled in and put an arrow to the string.

Most hunters liked to "chase" the deer, as Barst put it. They would spend hours creeping along the forest floor hoping to run across the ideal buck. Barst, on the other hand, preferred his patient way for its relaxing qualities. His life was strenuous enough without having to go running after some four-legged creature.

He heard a rustle behind him and immediately drew the string to his ear. The feather of the arrow brushed gently on his cheek, just as it had years ago.

His mind flashed back to that moment with amazing clarity. Probably be-cause it was one of the few special memories he had left.
The rays of sun had streamed
down through the sparse trees and flickered across his dad's face, as he instructed Jonathan to be patient. It wasn't his first time hunting, yet Jonathan always asked for his dad to come with him. It was lonely by himself and some of his best times were with his father. The air was colder there, and the high altitude made Jonathan breath heavily. Stillness seemed to hang in the air, and time was suspended. Then noise shattered the peace, and Jonathan turned to spot a large buck.

His father's face froze, and his words stopped. The frozen time seemed to become even slower as Jonathan drew the bowstring, quietly took a deep breath, and released the arrow on the exhale. It flew true, and his father's face beamed down on him with giddy joy.

A twig snapped and Barst relaxed his arms as Edmond, a fellow hunter walked by. Barst briefly considered calling out, but decided he had no desire for a conversation. Edmond's scent would probably repel the deer. Oh well. He didn’t hunt for the meat anyways.

Edmond's noise faded away and Barst found himself alone with his thoughts again. Thankfully he was full of them. His mind dwelt on Her, and he found him-self unable to draw his thoughts away from the possibility of her existence. Every time he told himself it is was impossible that he had actually seen Her, hope gnawed away at his skepticism.

His eyelids began to feel heavy, and Barst let his head loll against the hard trunk. His breathing slowed, and Barst allowed himself to fall into the smothering embrace of sleep.

C H A P T E R 9

The “Invitation”

Barst woke from his doze to find the forest beginning to darken. He clambered down the tree and returned to the Lodge. After returning his bow and arrows, Barst began to make his way back home.

The streets were beginning to empty and the children, who had been playing in puddles, were now complaining about having to go inside. Barst walked through the market square, where merchants were putting away their Haddix merchandise as the country neared that fateful holiday. Barst soon found himself at the entrance of Aaron's home, and breathed a few more gulps of the pure mountain air before entering.

He knocked loudly, and the door was answered by a smiling Jem who quickly skipped down the hall. Aaron and Marcie were sitting at the table in the far corner of the room, and both were watching Barst. Barst nodded in their direction, and took a seat on the couch nearest him. He let out a deep sigh, and began to take off his boots.

Aaron coughed lightly and Barst glanced up while still focusing on his boot.

"What?"

Aaron let out a long breath, "Your vacation is going to have to end sooner than planned."

Barst
stopped, one shoe off, and completely focused on Aaron.

Aaron rubbed his eyes tiredly and said, "An order was sent out by Lord Barkley. He is ordering every Class-one professional fighter in his district to come and fight at his arena for Haddix."

Barst's heartbeat quickened. Lord Barkley was in control of the district in which they lived. He answered only to the King and his decrees were final. He lived in a huge fortress city tucked in the mountains and was known for his secrecy, seclusion and austerity.

Closely associated with Lord Barkley was The Legion. The Legion was Lord Barkley's feared right hand. The members of this "cult" were taken at a young age from orphanages, and instructed in how to enforce his laws by fear.

Public displays of punishment weren't uncommon, and each was brutal and creative. Barst had heard of one such event, where the Legion had whipped the prosecutor with glass and then proceeded to poor alcohol in his open wounds. If that wasn’t enough, they had finished the man off by drowning. Needless to say, the Legion was just and their punishments well deserved, yet their brutality had given Lord Barkley a frightening air.

Haddix was the celebration of the defeat of the goblins. The Battle Haddix had happened hundreds of years ago, but it was still known as a magnificent battle, where the goblins were defeated by King Thortan and his troops. The battle was of such a large scale that it turned the very field into a barren wasteland. This stitch of desert was still visible in the Prayeron Valley, not far from Barst's original home.

On that day, which was a week from now, it was customary for everyone to dress up as warriors, and many storytellers earned their wages by telling the tale of the valiant struggle that had taken place. The rich would hold mock battles and try to impress their friends with their wealth. Obviously, Lord Barkley wanted to best them all.

"What are the rules?"

"Not good, I'm afraid," Aaron said exasperated. He exhaled loudly, then continued, "It's to the death. Two huge battles, each with two opposing teams, then
winners face off. It seems that he is planning to kill more than three-fourths of the Untouchables off in a single day."

Barst hated those odds. He knew he could win one-on-one, but he despised depending on others for his survival. One can only fight a few warriors before he becomes overwhelmed or exhausted. He made up his mind quickly.

"I'm leaving." Barst quickly said, hurriedly putting his boot back on.

"'Fraid not."

The foreign voice from the kitchen area froze Barst. Aaron winced, and out stepped a man wearing the Legion uniform from behind the wall that hid the kitchen. He was well built and stocky with muscles popping out everywhere along his arms. His face was covered by his huge, bushy, black mustache and beard. His uniform was composed of a dark, thick material with a large purple "L" covering the front. The left side of his barreled chest had two golden bars positioned vertically. While Barst was still taking him in, the soldier gave a wry grin and then spoke.

"Name's Force. I'm here to make sure you don’t escape." He smiled with a smile that never reached his frosty blue eyes, "Don’t even think about killing me. I am well trained in magic and would have no remorse in blowing you off the face of the earth." To emphasize his point Force pointed at the door, which dissolved in a shatter of splitters. Marcie and Aaron jumped with obvious looks of fear on their faces.

"So, Barst,” Force continued, tucking his thumbs into his belt loop and rocking on his heels, “now that we have been introduced, I would like you to pack your stuff. We will be leaving shortly. If you don’t want to... well lets just say you would be a lot more messy than the door, and you wouldn’t want this lovely couple cleaning up two messes."

Force began walking to the door, but then stopped as another thought came to him. "Oh, by the way, I never sleep. Never. So you can throw that escape idea out the window." He gave a smug look, showing his pride in his statement, then left the room with a jaunty swagger.

Barst could count on one hand the number of times he had been stunned. He hated the feeling. It showed weakness. Barst collected himself and then went to his room to collect his gear.

He quickly threw his gear into a leather bag.
Hate to keep him waiting.
He thought wryly.

Fondling his sword in his hands, Barst paused and briefly entertained the idea of fleeing. It would be stupid. He was very doubtful Force would give him the opportunity to escape. As bad as Legion punishments were to civilians, their punishments to their own were even more frightening. The result was a highly organized and effective fighting force.

Force. Why did they have to make up their own silly names? Barst hated the idea of calling that man Force for the duration of the trip.

He walked into the main room and found Aaron holding his crying wife. Aaron acknowledged Barst with a nod, and then motioned to the now visible street with his head. Barst nodded, took a few steps, then looked back at Aaron and mouthed his apology for the door. Aaron nodded again and then slightly waved to-ward the door with the hand that was on his wife's back. Barst turned and left through the open doorway.

Outside, a medium-sized, gray carriage was parked against the curb with a cocky Force leaning against it. A small, stiff coachman sat on top with his eyes trained ahead. The four dark horses attached to the coach seemed equally solemn, standing motionless on the curb.

Standing upright Force said in a mocking voice, "'Alf expected you to make a break for it. Good thing you didn’t, or you would’ve been a goner."

Barst ignored the jibe and threw his bag in the carriage before hopping in to it. Force smirked, then slid in the seat across from Barst, whom he fixed with a patronizing stare. Barst sighed and leaned his head against the open sill.

Guess I'll have to get some sleep again. Better than making conversation with this insolent dope.
With that last thought, Barst closed his eyes and tried to ignore the bumping
of the carriage beneath him. Across from him, Force snorted, and readjusted himself in his seat.

It was going to be a long trip.

C H A P T E R 10

A Day with Force

Barst woke up to find Force's gloating eyes still locked on
to him.
Guess he doesn't
sleep.
Barst grunted a greeting and glanced out the window to try to get his bearings.

"We're passing through the Shallom Pass," Force stated unprompted. Barst threw an irritated glance his way, and then drew his full attention out the window.

Huge walls of speckled granite towered alongside the small carriage as it trundled along the bumpy road. The early morning light cast a glare on the large, mountainous face. An occasional bush could be seen clinging onto the gray wall; but other than that, no other life could be distinguished. Barst craned his head upward, but no end could be seen to the ominous rock that reached towards the heavens.

He brought his head back into the carriage to be met with Force's never-changing smile, "Only way in, only way out as we say. I doubt anyone’s ever escaped, and no army could ever hope to conquer Lord Barkley's impenetrable fortress," Force said, still smiling.

"You have a pretty high regard for the one who stole you out of the cradle," Barst said, trying to knock the tiresome smile from Force's face. He succeeded, and Force's face morphed into an expression of extreme anger.

"Lord Barkley saved me and gave me future—a longer future than you have coming anyway!" He laughed at his own joke, but his face soon returned to the purple shade it had taken. "He made me powerful." Force pointed his finger at Barst and Barst found himself unable to move. He struggled briefly, and then gave up
when he realized it would be hopeless. "A lot more powerful than some ring fighter," Force said vehemently. He raked Barst with his eyes in disgust, and then spit on his face. Barst tried to stay calm, not wanting to give Force any satisfaction.

Force slowly clenched his fist and Barst could feel a crushing force closing in on him. "Do you know how easy it would be to kill you? You're nothing but entertainment—a jester who kills. People pay money to see you die." Globs of spit were beginning to stick in Force's beard and his eyes had a crazed expression. He paused, as if thinking for words, his labored breathing the only sound in the carriage. Then his face transformed back into the same mocking smile he had earlier exhibited. "Good thing they won't have to wait long."

Force relaxed his hand and Barst felt the pressure release. Not wanting to give Force the pleasure, Barst tried not to gasp for air or wipe the spit off his face. He decided to remain silent for his own safety. He didn’t know if Force was allowed to kill him, but he didn’t want to find out.

When he looked up at Force, he found the smug smile still plastered on his face, and his hand was running through his beard, combing out the spit. The rate that Force changed moods was amazingly infuriating to Barst, though not much of Force wasn't. Force's smile widened at Barst's gaze, and the soldier decided to continue his one sided conversation.

"As you can see, the Legion doesn’t only develop physical abilities, but magical as well. What I just did would make an ordinary man feint with exhaustion." He broke Barst's gaze and focused on his own hand, which began to faintly glow. Seemingly in deep thought, he continued in a quiet voice, while slowly rotating his glowing hand. "We have powers that put us above men. We have exceeded what you think of as reality and have entered a realm where anything is possible." He snapped back and fixed Barst with a cold smile, "You have no idea how weak you are."

With that last sentence, Forces hand flashed with light once, and then re-turned to normal.
Barst shivered and tried to resist the urge to sending his fist right through Force's face. Accompanied with a good statement, blackening Force's face would make his day.
Though I probably wouldn’t have very many good days afterwards.

Though he tried to ignore it, Barst was afraid. Being on the same carriage as a powerful psychopath made him nervous. Trying to get a hold of himself, he began to dissect his feelings.
Why am I afraid of death?

He had been face-to-face with death dozens of times in the arena, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had been afraid of it. Though death had been a door he was not scared to enter, it had not been a door he was going to enter until he had no other option. Now though, he found that he was terrified of death. He, who had just two days ago fought a Devil Hound, had been legitimately scared when Force had begun to crush him. The change in his attitude perplexed him.