Nine
Alone
The blistering heat made Von-wratha’s skin crawl, and her long fingernails would scratch until black scabs formed on her flesh. Months had passed since the oracles expelled her from Giria and since her Nalax had betrayed her to them. Needles pressed against her mind every time she remembered him. Her only relief was bashing boulders against each other with her growing telekinetic power. When the massive stones cracked, she envisioned Razza’s face in their centre. When the boulder’s shattered into pebbles, she imagined Aeos’ body getting crushed beneath them, and when the stones were dispersed into dust, she thought of life leaving Nalax’s eyes. Then her rage would be sated, even for a moment.
The suns sizzled the red canyons of the Barrier Hills, her new home. The cooler months had slowly begun vanishing, many of the green foliage which had thrived during the winter had shrivelled into dry brown patches on the earth. The plants in this strange land weren't dying, they were going to sleep for the summer. Sweat rolled down her darkened grey forehead, her tongue rolled in her dry mouth, all of which told her one thing: water. Von-wratha skipped over the mound of orange stones that she had created over the previous days to the cool, refreshing water that lay beyond the hills. Her footing slipped on the dusty stone. She was weakened by her psionic exercise and her body demanded more energy. She considered levitating over the mound, but in her foolishness, she had practised when the suns were at their highest and any more energy spent would bring her death.
Once she trudged to the water, she threw handfuls over her crown and shoulders. The relief was immediate. Von-wratha ran her fingers through her hair and on her scalp but noticed thick navy strands of hair knotted around her fingers. Her eyes widened with horror, she gripped her hair to feel its roots no longer connected with her skin and large patches of scalp became more exposed.
“Who do I have to impress?” she muttered, her lips curling into a grin. She caught her reflection in the shiny surface, her teeth had blackened from their once pearly complexion. She looked like Matron Aeos!
She scooped water into her palm and threw it into her mouth, greedily slurping it. Its strange saltiness made her body feel more refreshed and electric than the fresh water she drunk in Giria. Whenever she drank from this salty liquid, her fingers felt like they were being prickled by invisible needles and her psionics would be increased tenfold. In the corner of her eye, a faint sliver of a creature glided beneath the surface.
Von-wratha’s predatory instincts struck. Her arms dove into the water and pulled out the cold wriggling sea snake from its aquatic domain. She hadn’t eaten since her arrival to the Barrier Hills. She was never accustomed to great feasts back home, but it wasn’t ordinary for Girians to go on for this long without food before starvation. Before her exile, she had higher endurance when exercising her great psionic power. But as the days and weeks passed being cut off from Giria’s energy, her stamina waned, and another hunger had set in. The desert madness had settled in.
She stared at the creature’s long and scaly body. It thrashed around in her grasp in a desperate fight for its life. Von-wratha’s fingers prickled against the sea snake, it didn’t have much meat on its bones, but it was full of energy.
“I wonder…” she whispered as she closed her eyes and sensed the creature’s panic as she leeched its life into her palms. The sea snake’s energy rippled through her arms before settling into her centre. It stopped wriggling and fell limp in her hand.
Von-wratha felt pity as she stared at the creature. Its small gaping jaw hung over her knuckle, and its finned tail flapped in the wind. She tossed the sea snake back into the shallow water and any sorrow she felt returned into nothingness. She got what she needed from it. Von-wratha sighed as she took in the view of the Barrier Hills and made her way to the ruins of a failed Girian colony. It laid scattered and semi-buried by the sands along the shores. She had stripped the broken structures of any resources or tools that would prove useful. Unfortunately, their only use was a partial shelter from the elements.
Von-wratha scanned inside the tattered tent. Items laid resting against the metal walls she scavenged over the months and arranged around a sleeping sack that she struggled to find rest in. However, her stormy mind would never relent for rest, when the nights would roll in, so meditation was her only recharge for a new day. Though her ever-growing powers were to blame for her insomnia, nightmarish images would flash across her mind of a serpent swallowing her and dying slowly inside its belly. Other times, she would see the blue-haired female that died before she was old enough to remember: her birth mother.
What kind of life would she have if Aeos and her zealots hadn’t butchered her family? She wondered. Would she have become one of the many slaves working themselves to death in the city at best, or served as an oracle’s or noble’s courtesan at worst? Von-wratha ran her fingers against the handles of ornamental spears. Their blade tips were too blunt for any cutting. She remembered similar weapons that sat in the Academy’s halls. She and Nalax would sometimes use them for sparring when other fledglings and matrons went to sleep. A tear welled in her eye as she visited those happier memories.
“Such a damn fool,” she said as she recalled her eight-year-old self-dangling on the edge of the broken windowsill with Nalax, where the two fledglings were talking about better days to come. Exile was believed to be a slow death sentence. It was one of the worst things to happen to a Girian. But to Von-wratha, it served as a destruction of her mind and body. The Barrier Hills were barren of life except for the flying serpents that were too far from her reach and the insects too little to feed her psionic power. She couldn’t live this way a day longer. She glanced back to the horizon above boulder mound, thinking maybe she could return home. Despite how powerful the oracles considered themselves, their telepathic senses would fail to detect her if she cloaked her mind.
“No, no, someone might recognise me,” she said, pacing around the tent. Who could recognise her now? Her eyes have lost their silver hue, her voluptuous form has thinned enough for her bones to show and her hair was replaced with a scalp. No one would know it was her.
“Nalax might,” she said. Saying his name made her lips curl in disgust. If he ever came looking for her, she will be ready to face him – even if he brought the whole army with him.
Von-wratha seized the spear tip and yanked it from its hilt. She placed the blade to the base of her hair roots and swiped across her scalp. She pulled the cut strands from her head. Her once-thick braids dropped to the bedding, and she tossed the blade aside. Von-wratha ran her fingers along her bare scalp. Her palms couldn’t feel roots ready to spring from her skin. Her hair would never grow again.
The dual sun’s rays had dimmed behind a sliver of thin clouds, but the heat remained in the air. She tore the dark tattered curtains from their hooks and cloaked her shoulders, arms and head before making her way out of the shelter. As her feet scrapped against the dirt, a faint vibration emanated from beneath. Von-wratha’s senses spiked. In the distance, she heard a grinding of metal echoing from the canyons. Loud thoughts flowed through her mind. First, there were a couple of humanoid forms which grew to a dozen, all Girians. She scampered over the rocky mound and saw on the desert horizon dust building behind a row of metal and wooden carts being pulled by slaves and commoners. Alongside them were snake helmed zealots barking orders to hurry the convoy. As they neared, she saw a wooden palanquin being hauled by four bald slaves. Her senses dived behind the curtains of the passenger. Immediately her mind flashed back to her old Academy days of an older fledgling whipping Blyth, the horrid Zenin. The same male fledgling that had his nose shattered by Matron Aeos’s fist.
Now, Zenin leads his own colonial operation. The palanquin stopped at the base of the rock mound along with the rest of the convoy. A stubby hand ripped open the curtains to reveal a greasy haired male. His round blue cheeks sat on either side of his face while his neck was surrounded by a layer of fat that gave the impression of another chin.
“Why have we stopped?” he roared. His cheeks flapped as he spoke.
“We have arrived at the Barrier Hills, sir,” said one of the slaves. His head bowed low, not daring to look up at his master.
Zenin pushed himself from the palanquin. His shoulders were covered with a navy and violet cloak held together by a silver chain across his bare chest, and his round protruding belly flopped with each step he took. He grabbed at the slave’s neck and pulled his ear close to his mouth, yet the volume of his voice unchanged.
“Did I command you to stop?” Zenin said.
The slave winced and shook his head violently. Zenin released his grip and waddled to the mound. Only few feet away, Von-wratha pressed her body against the stones to remain unseen. Her skin grazed the hot, sharp rocks below, and her mind closed to remain undetected. She watched the guards hold out their arms to support Zenin on his climb to the top of a flat stone. He gargled a thick wad of phlegm and shot it by his feet.
“See this site before you, my fellow Girians, a ruined colony of our ancestors. Then, we had not known the great dangers beyond our walls, but in the last few centuries, we have grown strong in our cradle. Today we mark our new home in the Barrier Hills to begin again expanding our kind across this province and beyond!” Zenin thrust his thick arms to the sky, while his audience stomped their feet and grunted in their approval of his speech.
Only a foot away from Zenin’s odorous body, Von-wratha smiled like a patient snake for an unsuspecting rodent to draw closer.
~
By sunset, the old ruins were replaced by a busy and thriving community of Girians in make-shift tents that lay scattered around the Barrier Hill’s pass. Von-wratha watched the settlers from the sloping canyons. As the night steadily rolled in, she wanted nothing more than to have her feet dangle off the edge, but the risk of them seeing her would have been too great. She contemplated on her return to Giria. It would raise alarms if a sole hooded figure wandered to the Black Walls and attempted entry, but if she could enter along with a group of people for a supply run to the city, she could slip past the wall’s guards and oracles.
Blazing torches lit the grounds. She set her sights at the edge of the camp on a small group of commoners and slaves huddled in dark brown robes beside a fire. A zealot, loud and drunk came to the commoners. He pulled at their robes and shouted obscenities when he was met with resistance from them. In a blink of an eye, the zealot dragged a bald female from the circle and pulled out his staff and began stomping on the cowering slave.
The commotion brought an audience around the scene, along with Zenin and his personal guards. They pulled the intoxicated zealot from the female, but Zenin pulled out a black gauntlet and shot a red beam inches from the slave’s head. He chuckled as he tore away from the quickly disbanding crowd. His belly flopped with each step as he pulled open his violet tent and disappeared behind the sheets. The group of commoners took the crying female back into their fold as they readied their departure for the night.
Von-wratha realised she didn’t have long if she wanted to blend in with the dispersing crowd. She covered her body with a psychic shadow and whisked down to the camp’s edge where the group were trying to stamp out the fire.
“Let me do that,” she said in her fully materialised form.
Their heads shot up to see her walking from the darkness. The beaten female was comforted by a male in similar robes. She looked to Von-wratha and her tear-stained face curled into a smile.
“Thank you,” the male beside her whispered.
Von-wratha stared at the couple’s closeness for a moment. Her mind flickered back to Nalax but forced a smile as she stomped on the fire, slightly releasing some of her telekinesis to suffocate the flames.
“You’re good at that,” said a deep voice from another robed slave.
“I’m used to stomping out fires,” she said, trying to keep her cheeks from twitching as she looked to the female, “are you alright?”
“It's fine,” she said trying to rest her head against the male’s shoulder but winced in pain.
“We will take our leave for the night, night’s blessings,” he said before turning to the tents.
“Night’s blessings,” the group said in unison. Von-wratha remained silent.
“What was your name again?” said the deep-voiced slave as he pulled the hood from his face. She knew that voice; it belonged to the grizzled tavern worker, though she failed to recall his appearance. He was twice Von-wratha’s age. His shaven head reflected the moonlight, thin navy tattoos lined his cheeks, and his eyes were like two pale sapphires in his skull.
“Von, and yours?” she said, mimicking his actions.
“Hmm, I don’t remember your name, or seeing you travel with us,” he said as his fingers slowly rubbed his chin.
“Oh, calm yourself, it’s been a long day,” said a larger male pulling his hood from his head and turning to Von-wratha, “I’m Kan, and this is Gul,”
Kan’s robes were several sizes too small for his immense height and bulging muscles. He was Gul’s age but had a youthful naive look about his face. His tattoos lined his chin and jaw, and blue scruffy hair came to his ears, an indication of his commoner class.
“Where’s your tent?” he asked, glancing around the settlement.
“Mine was thrashed by a zealot, don’t know who it was, but I hadn’t bothered putting it back up,” Von said smoothly. Lying has been a reliable asset, but Gul didn’t seem convinced, unlike his counterpart.
“That’s a shame. Well, I can help you put it back up, I wouldn’t trust the warriors at this time of night if I were alone and as small as you,” Kan said with a smile.
“You have an awful lot of tattoos for a slave,” Gul said, his eyes wandering to her bare scalp down to her face.
Von-wratha’s temper was flaring; she was tempted to hurl him across the hill’s pass but placing a telepathic dampening shield around her thoughts would prove to be a smarter choice.
“I lost my hair recently, it’s not a topic I care to discuss,” she said feigning offence.
Gul opened his mouth but was interrupted by a snake-helmed zealot storming to their circle. “Curfew’s in place, scurry back before I add a new hole in your face.” he hissed.
“Come, I have a spare quilt in my tent,” Kan whispered as the trio whisked away from the cliff’s edge.
“You always have a spare quilt in your room, Kan.” Gul growled as he slumped to the slave’s tents.
A tickle of amusement rushed through Von-wratha as a nervous smile flashed across Kan’s face. He didn’t dare add a comment to his comrade’s words. He beckoned for her to follow to the commoner’s section. She wandered beneath his large form away from the guard’s gaze. Every tent they passed glowed amber from their centres. She could sense the consciousness of the occupants slowly drifting away from the nightmare that was their lives.
“I cannot believe we survived the trek to the hills. No matter how much I trained, the desert was far more brutal than anything back home,” Kan said, staring towards the dark separation of the canyons.
Von-wratha kept her silence. Her focus was caught by several piles of un-opened metallic crates scattered around the grounds. Considering the numbers, it would feed, clothe and heal the entire settlement for months. She didn’t have that kind of time.
“Since I was a youngling, I loved looking past the walls to see the endless expanse of the desert at night. I dreamt of exploring the entire province as I sat over the balcony, but now, this wasn’t how I wanted it…” Kan whispered as he kept his gaze to the horizon.
Von-wratha sensed rage building within him as he relived the memory. Her body instinctively strained, but his thoughts immediately returned to the present.
“Did you ever do that, Von?” he said suddenly.
She rolled her eyes, and her body calmed. “I never had a balcony,” she quietly said.
Kan whipped around, his eyes widened, and his cheeks turned blue. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude and all,” he said, looking at her scalp.
Von-wratha sighed, unable to contain her frustration. “Where’s your tent?” she snapped.
He took a nervous step back and pointed to a dark opened tent beside them. Von-wratha didn’t wait for him to enter. First, she crouched low and slipped into a mocha coloured blanket. Kan awkwardly followed; his shadowed lanky frame made him appear as a bosh’kag youngling. She watched him fumble with a tinder box to light a small candle in the tent. The gentle flame lit his jaw and cheekbones from below, and for a moment he looked like Nalax.
“I’m not a slave,” she said, staring down at her grey arms over the quilt.
“Oh,” his face eased, and a corner of his lip curled into a smile, “well none of us is out here,”
“Tell that to Zenin,” she said, her eyes darting to Kan.
“The Master is part of the old world, people like him that have that much hate and wrong in them never live long. He will die out eventually and realise the error of his ways in the afterlife,” he said, throwing his quilt over his torso.
Von-wratha scoffed. Kan was a fool, and fools like him are always the first to perish.
“It’s a shame, however,” Kan continued as his arms and body inched their way closer to Von-wratha.
Her senses rang with worry, and she tried creeping back closer to the edge of the tent. “What is?” she said with a strained voice.
Kan’s soft chuckle sounded forced. He reached over to Von-wratha’s thin arm and began brushing her skin gently with his fingers. “Master Zenin wasn’t meant to be in charge of the settlement here, that right was meant to be for Vizier Surus, Twins protect his soul,”
Von-wratha’s mouth dried and her heart began thumping in her chest. “Su-rus?”
“Oh yes, but he was slain by an assassin, the Black Blade,” Kan’s eyes narrowed. His fingers twisted around her arm and began squeezing as he voiced his thoughts.
Von-wratha twisted her arm from his grasp and sat up in the quilt. Her eyes narrowed as she readied to fire up her psionics.
“I’m sorry,” he said, brushing a knuckle in his eye as he leaned back in the blankets, “didn’t mean to get like that.”
Von-wratha tilted her head to the side, her lips curled as she leaned over to Kan. “I forgive you.” she whispered.
Her hand gently pressed against Kan’s cheek and slid it over his eyes. Her mind bore its way into his and rendered it unconscious. She watched as all the muscles in his body loosened and collapsed onto the sheets. Von-wratha leapt on her feet, skittered outside the tent and pulled the hood over her scalp. To her relief, she sensed most of the residents enjoying their dreams. Past the row of tents, she discovered the supply crates pilled in a small hill. With her arms outstretched, a brilliant red light burst from her palms. She directed its energy to the containers and began shredding them until they were little more than mounds of shrapnel.
She skipped over to the next supply pile and the next until she came upon the last of the crates beside the edge of the canyon. Her energy began crushing the boxes until her senses spiked; someone was coming. Heavy metal boots scraped against the sand. Her head spun around to see a zealot standing feet from her with its gauntlets raised.
“What do you think you are doing?” the armoured creature asked. His helmet whipped to the side in full view of the broken crates.
In a flash, the gauntlets burst into red points and swung toward Von-wratha’s head. Without thinking, she telekinetically gripped his arm and twisted with enough force to hear the metal and bone crack. The zealot screeched as his arm dangled from his torso. Von-wratha jumped on his wide shoulders and gripped on his helmet. She felt his gauntlet grip her thigh and its cold steel slice into her skin. She gulped down a lung full of air as she focused her energy into a sharp spear pointing towards the head above her fingers. She thrust her hand into the zealot’s plated chest. He groaned as she pushed deeper. The warrior staggered, still trying to push her off him, but her second charged hand plunged between his neck and chest.
Von-wratha skipped off his shoulders before the zealot plummeted to the dust. Small blue rivers poured from his centre. She clutched at her wounds. She imagined her skin sealing beneath her palm. With one last look at the dead warrior, she wiped her blood of her black sleeves and whisked away back to Kan’s tent.
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