Marauders

Atticus Greyhorn eyed the scene below with unease. Gently, silently, he swept more greenery from his view as his lips moved in a wordless count. From his vantage point, sprawled on his belly and hiding beneath the underbrush atop a densely wooded hillock, he had a perfect view of the clearing below. Far more lurked below than he, or anyone else, had expected.

Something cracked behind him and he froze. After a breath he gradually shifted and flipped around; repositioning so he might peer into the clump of vegetation behind. Nothing moved within his immediate line of sight, but that didn’t mean much. Anyone could linger unseen in this darkness, but that didn’t mean they could hide from him.

His eyes drifted shut as he pushed his focus inwards and sought that bubble of light that so many revered. There it was; deep within he caught sight of its pulsing glow. His Naidam, his power, beckoned to him and his lips quivered into a smile as he took hold. It gleefully leapt to do as he beckoned as his will focused and shaped the power. As his eyes opened a black fog rose to blot out the feeble light and completely obscure his already limited vision. That changed as his Naidam took hold.

Light began to pulse in the black. Greens represented the vegetation; with this sight each leaf, each stalk and all of the plants that lived were shaded green. Individual plants had a tendency to glow in slightly different shades but all held verdant colour. Living creatures with greater intelligence such as animals and sentient beings were shaded blue. The intensity of the blue depended on their intelligence and how they thought.

Greyhorn surveyed the green before him, methodically sweeping his gaze across the sea of plants. There, between a pair of trees a short distance away and partially obscured by green glow knelt a blue figure.

It didn’t appear as though the figure had seen him yet so Greyhorn shifted some of his Naidam to muffle his movements. Thus muted he rose. Steel smoothly, and soundlessly, slid against steel as he unsheathed his blade. His footsteps were silent in the long grass as he circled around and towards the figure. As he drew closer he found his suspicion confirmed; this figure, and most likely the silhouettes he had observed below, were orcs. It was safe to assume that they were related to, or even same as, the band that had been terrorising the borders of the fiefdom for months.

Fury pumped through him as he regarded the monster before him. Greyhorn had seen several villages which had been burned by these brutes; none had been left alive. They were dangerous and had to be stopped.

As he approached the orc’s rear it whirled and let out a faint growl. It knew he was there.

Caught my scent, Greyhorn thought as he rushed closer to strike, bloody clumsy of me.

His first swing flew wild as a shield materialised from the darkness, deflecting his blade with a fearful clang.

Damn, he mused, he was getting rusty if he hadn’t noticed the shield. That clang meant this fight needed to end quickly. The others in the camp below had surely heard the sound.

The orc roared in fury as it began its retaliation; its blade swept before Greyhorn’s face as he twisted back. Greyhorn swirled and his arm followed, sending his blade in a broad arc towards the monster’s neck. This time the steel connected and the sword sunk into the orc’s flesh. It dropped quickly and silently but the damage was already done.

Horns ripped through the air as the clash of the fight faded. Greyhorn cursed gently; they would be coming now. He was no longer safe. He glanced back at the camp below, absorbing what he could of its layout before he fled. Once he returned to camp and warned his division they would return to put an end to this war-party. Atticus could only hope that the orcs were still here when he returned. They usually faded into the woods before they could be caught, but maybe this time they would be too slow.

All he could do was hope that these monsters could be caught before they slaughtered again.

A Note: Hiatus

There comes a time when, even when doing something that you love, you just find that you cannot carry on. Whether it is for reasons of time, ability, or desire you just find it is... difficult to continue.

For me I still wished to keep going, I fought to continue on, but in the end my efforts just felt... flat, dispirited and uninspired. That is part of why I stopped. But it was only part of it.

When writing changed for me, when what began as my record of the thoughts and story ideas that had grown within me became a weekly struggle to develop an idea and drudge to write, I knew the time had come for me to stop for a while. The time had come for me to take a break and recharge.

Yet I continued on.

For close to a year I struggled to continue writing these fragments. I fought with my schedule, with the pressures from the world around me, and in general with my feelings of dissatisfaction of what my fragments, and my writing in general, had become. What had once been so easy and effortless became a fight of endurance. My own special case of writers block worsened and slowly, ever so slowly, I began to miss my goal of four fragments a month. My desire to write lessened as writing became more a chore than a way to express myself. I found myself writing partial fragments that would never see the light of day; there were times when I could no longer write a sentence without feeling as though I’d penned those exact same words before.

Life continued on and eventually I made the choice to stop for a while.

And so I did.

Back at the end of June I decided to stop for a bit. There have been a few times since that I have picked up my virtual pen; a few times that I have considered starting again but those attempts never made it far.

I’ll pick it up again eventually but for now... for now I still need a break.

A Trick of the Mind

Moonlight reflected brightly upon the table. The stained maple was damp from the evening showers and the small beads of liquid glittered like opals in the pure light. Rivulets of water ran down the cracks between the planks and eventually fell to splash against the deck below. Overhead leaves whispered; the faint wind caught their soft voices and swept them away. Insects chirped and their songs brought the night alive. The old wooden deck creaked as a figure shifted in a rusted lawn chair. The indeterminable shape of the figure moved slightly before settling once more into a motionless state.

I frowned as I stared at the orb before me. Something about that figure... it triggered an inkling of… something… to fire in my skull. This figure was important. From my angle the figure was just a shadowed shape but I could fix that. A gesture towards the orb was all it took for my view to orbit to the left. As the image in the orb spun the figure’s features came into view.

There she was. In the moonlight I could barely make out her features. Oval face, long black hair, thin lips, petite nose, and large eyes with graceful lashes all poked out from under the heavy hoodie that she wore. It was a face that was not familiar to me; so why was she so important?

Light flared up in her hand as a lighter clicked. In the light her features sharpened to my sight but nothing I saw helped me determine who she was. There were no identifying symbols on her clothing, her hoodie was a generic brand, and nor did she have any visible tattoos, birthmarks or scarring.

She shivered and pulled the hoodie tighter around herself. The orange flame flickered in her hand as she snapped the lighter shut once more. There was another click and again the flame took hold. Clearly this was a fidget of some sort.

Past the orb the door before me creaked open. I looked up to see one of my servants, I can never remember any of their names, solemnly look past the heavy wood. I gestured him through and then held up a hand to stop him before he grew too close. He bowed to me and then passively stood a few steps away. I’d need him soon.

I returned my attention to the orb.

Click went the lighter in the silence as she snapped it shut. A sound in the distance caught her attention and her head shot up. Her eyes intently fastened onto some point in the darkness and she rose to her feet. I shifted the view but I could see nothing through the black. I gestured again to focus on her.

The orb began to flicker blue at the edges. At first the flicker was slow but it gradually increased in speed. Soon the image would lose stability and the recording would stop. It was inevitable and meant that I was running out of time.

A voice cried out in some foreign tongue and she replied in kind. She didn’t seem worried; actually there wasn’t much emotion visible on her face. Instead there was just a trace of... determination. She knew... something and for whatever it was she was prepared.

The blue flicker grew worse; the image stability was rapidly deteriorating. An electronic beep signaled that I only had a few seconds left. I was going to lose the image.

In the brief moment before the image cut out she looked towards me and smiled. No, she didn’t just look in my general direction; it were as though she looked me in the eyes. The crooked smile that occupied her lips filled me with unease. And then there was nothing. The image faded away and I was left staring at the empty orb.

Had she seen me? Was there a way she could have seen me? My breath caught in my throat as I considered the implications of those questions.

No... I eventually decided. It must have been a trick of my mind. There was no way she could have seen me.

“Master,” inquired his servant, “What must be done?”

I waved a hand across the base that the orb sat upon. There was an electronic beep and a previously invisible panel slid out of the polished wood. Inside rested a cloudy prism; this prism I pulled free and held out to the servant. The prism was the physical recording of my session. The video stored within showed what I had seen.

“Get this analyzed at once. Find the woman; she’s important.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask master, when is this from?” The man asked hesitantly, “Did you see this in the past, present or future?”

“I don’t know when,” I snapped, the irritation plain in my tone, “Just see it done.”

“At once master,” stated the servant; he reverently lifted the data recorder from my hand, bowed to me and then left the room.

As the door slammed shut behind him I drew a rune in the air to seal it; then I drew a second rune to put out the lights. As commanded the pair of florescent bulbs dimmed and then faded to darkness.

I needed some time to think.

The Gorge

The wretched bridge swayed in the wind before him as he stared upon it with unease. The red pennant at the other side danced enticingly as it beckoned him across, but he dared not set foot upon that bridge. The ropes rocked back and forth as yet another gust of wind caught hold of it. The planks shuddered and creaked as the iron bound rope swung. When the ropes had almost settled back into stillness the wind once more caught hold and the bridge shifted.

The bridge was clearly old; the seasoned rope had begun to fray at points and the old rope scarred boards were splintered and obviously weathered. Even the posts at either side that held the whole structure in place seemed half rotted through.

If this was his last test then it was a test he was doomed to fail.

Yarick paced across the cold stone of the cliff as he stared at that expanse before him. He had come so far, faced so many trials and sacrificed so much to be standing here now. This was his chance to prove himself. This was the turning point in his life which he had long anticipated. But now this new barrier stood in his way.

As he watched a splintered plank rocked free of its anchors and plummeted into the gorge below. There was no way the bridge would allow for an easy crossing. It was doubtful that many of those boards could even hold his weight. Yet he had to cross the gorge in order to pass this test.

Or....

He turned to stare back into the forest that lay at his back. He could always return the way he came.

In defeat he could always go back down that trail and return to the base of the mountain. The mere thought of giving up brought to mind the scorn in the voices of those who would talk to him. He could already see the disappointment in the eyes of his friends and family. He, the man who had showed so much promise and had gone so far, had failed. It would then be time for the people to find a new champion.

The thought of that disappointment made him cringe; he had no desire to go through that. Returning in shame was not an option. Instead he must find a way to press forwards. For them he would continue on. Yarick Tomanas was the chosen one. Of that he was sure.

He glanced up at the stormy grey clouds to steel himself before stepping closer to the bridge. Ropes creaked as he set a hand upon the post holding the guide rope aloft. Fear made his heart flutter as he glared at the far off pennant. Beyond that pennant was a trail that led further up the mountain.

That trail led to hope; it led to salvation. If he could make it to the top then the gods would have deemed him worthy and he could take up the great power that slept there. Sure, it would change him; it would morph him into who he was meant to be. It would grant him the power to save his people from a reign of terror that had lasted for centuries.

He could do this. For them.

It would also grant me great power, said a small part of his mind, with this power I could rule the land.

He closed his eyes then pushed all thoughts, fears and worries aside. The first plank creaked as he set foot on the bridge but the old wood held firm. Yarick set his eyes upon that high up trail as he stepped onto the next plank. Again it held his weight. He smiled and his pose relaxed. This wasn’t so bad. He’d be across soon.

He would find his true destiny.

Reavers: Grief

Sellsword opened his eyes to numbly examine the console before him. That cursed headline stared out at him once again. “Langath station attacked. Thousands dead. Assailants unknown.” Was typed out in bold, black letters atop the news piece that had flashed onto his work station shortly after he awoke.

“Thousands dead” - those words haunted him. His parents, brothers and sister all lived in Langath station. It was supposed to be a safe harbour; Langath was far enough from the conflict zones on the outlying planets in the system that it was assumed to be safe. The spaceport was also fairly close to the capital of the human alliance and that space was covered by defense forces. How had something got through to strike at his home? There should be no war there; no conflict. Or so he had thought before this happened.

The console buzzed as a new message came through and he hurriedly opened it on the screen. His heart sank as he stared at the message contents; it was nothing more than a memo for this week’s classes. Immediately after he had seen the headline he had tried to contact his family however the message hadn't gone through. Instead he had only received a “message undelivered” response. Communications must have been flooded or cut; either way they were down. Disheartened he dismissed the message.

He swiped a finger across a few of the digital buttons on the console to transfer the news story and turned away from his desk in time to see the holoboard by his bunk receive the data. The information related to the attack arrayed itself in panels above the board. The video panels played a few frames silently and then looped while the textual articles and image galleries just showed an overview of their contents.

A particular article jumped out at him as he swiped through the panels. He grabbed it and made the gesture to open it. A list of ID tags, complete with images, blossomed forth from the panel as the other slides faded into the background. Thousands of faces, and names, stared out at him. These were the faces of the dead.

“Computer,” he said his voice monotonous and commanding, “Search last name Andrews.”

A green progress bar appeared and began to advance as the machine sifted through the gathered information. The computer was accessing the datanet that encompassed the human alliance planetary network; it would take some time for the scan to complete. A few hits almost instantly sorted onto the left side. Sellsword was relieved, guiltily relieved since these poor souls were still dead, to see that none of the faces matched those of his family.

A tone played at the door of Sellsword’s quarters announcing that someone stood outside. He glanced at the door then back at his holoboard. He didn’t really want to see anyone right now. At this moment all he wanted was to see that none of his family members were reported dead.

The tone rang again. Someone really wanted to see him.

“Mute holo,” he muttered and then went to answer the door. Sellsword pushed his palm savagely into the door’s release button; this was not a good time for him to see anyone.

Freya stood on the other side of the portal. The expression on her face told him that she’d already seen the news. Among the trainees only she knew what the attack meant for him. On this base recruits were not encouraged to discuss where they came from, too many rivalries and disputes between stations for that, but Freya and Sellsword were closer than most.

Before the door mechanisms had even stopped whirring her arms had already enveloped him in a hug. Sellsword tapped the button again to close the door and the heavy steel slab slid shut to hide the corridor beyond. Just like talking about the past, relationships were not encouraged past the point of comradeship. Sellsword and Freya were just friends but they were close friends; far too close for the liking of the academy.

“Restore holo,” said Freya as she drew back out of his arms. The hologram flickered back to life and the pair approached the table. She knew him well; she knew that he would be searching the lists and that he would have hidden the holo before opening the door.

Sellsword’s eyes flicked across the growing list of results; there was still nothing relevant to him. He didn’t recognize any of the names. Freya eyed him intently watching for any change in his expression. He looked at her and shook his head.

“Who could have done this,” she sighed, “Who could strike so far into our space?”

Sellsword just shook his head numbly. The same questions flickered across his mind but he had no answers. Langrath had minimal military value; it was a trade and manufacturing port with a primary focus on the entertainment industry. It was one of the wealthier ports but most of that wealth wasn’t tied into the alliance military. There was no reason to strike there. Unless...

“Maybe the Rebels aren’t directly responsible for this,” Sellsword finally spoke; his voice was harsh and came out a croak, “Maybe this was an internal attack only meant to cause terror. Maybe this wasn’t a military incursion but a covert op.”

He froze as another hit on his search popped up an ID card. Florence Andrews. That was Sellsword’s older brother. Immediately his eyes sought the cause of death listed on the card; it read “asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation.” His brother had died in the fires.

His knees wobbled as he sat down on the bed. Florence was gone. The brother who had taught him so much, who he had looked up to, was dead. It was a numb feeling that settled upon him. He felt as though this wasn't real, as if it couldn't be real. Tears threatened but they wouldn’t come.

The holoboard pinged as the search finished. He looked up at the floating images and was relieved to see that he didn’t know any of the other names that had showed up. One was more than enough.

Freya joined him on the edge of the bed and she wrapped her arms around him. Her warmth and presence comforted him. Being this close to her felt... good. In spite of this tragedy her embrace helped him.

“I’m sorry Colin,” she murmured in his ear, her breath warm on his skin, “I’m so sorry.”

Close friends, he thought as he tried to hold back his tears, nothing more.

His head fell onto her shoulder and he gave into his grief. He would find the ones responsible and make them pay.