Chapter Eight: Badlands
Dried sweat caked his face in a fine layer of salty powder.
The scorching sun beat down on him relentlessly. There were no clouds to offer shade and what little wind blew across the land only served to send a wave of heat to wash over him.
He gazed around. As predicted, there were few trees to obscure his vision, but shimmering heat waves danced across the horizon, blurring details so that he had to investigate every single thing that caught his eye. So far, he had found nothing.
The last signs of animal life had been over two days ago. He was cutting dangerously into his rations and water supply, and would be forced to head back soon.
Glancing upwards to see the position of the sun, he estimated at least three hours until sunset, at which point the stifling heat would change to a chilling cold with surprising speed. He had to find shelter soon.
After the first night, he had found that digging into an existing depression shielded him from the worst of the cold. The parched, cracked land retained some of the heat it absorbed during the day, and when that was gone at least it would protect him from the screeching winds that picked up when the sun fell.
He ran through the events of the last few days in his head again and concluded that he was in a pretty hopeless situation. But more than the unmerciful elements, the nagging hunger and thirst, the haunting ache of fatigue or even the sheer depressing sight of a land that was so drained of life that even the earth looked old and withered, more than all of these, it was the feeling of failure that hurt him the most. Some time ago, a part of his mind had admitted defeat.
He had fought off this feeling, knowing it to be the harbinger of failure, but it had sown itself in his mind and grew daily as more searching yielded nothing. The task was simply hopeless; one person could never achieve it.
Deciding that he’d had enough for the day, he cast around for a serviceable shelter for the night. The land was uneven, rising and falling gently in small hills and outcroppings of rock. Either of these would be a better place to sleep than out in the open.
A particularly tall hill stood to his left so he stumbled towards it hoping vainly for some respite. It was unlikely, though, for the night winds were fickle and he would have to wake up and readjust himself every few hours to avoid sand blowing into his face as he slept.
Not only had the heat sucked out all energy and motivation from him, he felt as though it had taken some of his consciousness too. His mind was unusually blank, his thoughts simple and base. He could not form clever plans or make the best of his situation because his brain seemed to have simply shut down. Without even noticing it, he had crested the rise.
It took a long moment for him to realise what he was seeing.
A few black, withered trees littered the landscape, but as they got closer to the hill he was standing atop, they seemed stronger and more alive. It was something that had escaped his notice but he now knew the cause. There was a small spring of water bubbling out of the ground with an obviously man made ring of stones around it to keep it contained in a small pool.
It was a mark of how desperate his water situation was getting that he noticed this pool before he saw the three white tents pitched around it. They were pale ochre like the dusty ground around them and large enough for him to stand in.
His moment of dumbfounded recognition passed and he quickly dropped to the floor, looking around for any signs of life.
It was probably not the witch he was after, for there were three tents, but it was probable that she had rendezvoused with allies along the way. Other possibilities entered his mind, each more unpleasant than the last.
He observed for another two minutes, counting out the seconds slowly in his mind. When nothing moved, he stood slowly, reaching for his sword.
Suddenly, he could see the dark blue sky and before he could wonder why, his head slammed into the dusty ground. As his vision blurred, he saw faces wrapped in cloths showing nothing but the eyes, deep red and unfriendly.
* * *
The door to the Hunting Hall was always open but the authority and self-assured power with which he carried himself elicited the same reaction as if he had kicked the door down.
The gentle c***k of glass and cutlery petered off into an uncomfortable silence as the usual rowdy atmosphere sobered in an instant. Every head in the Hall was turned towards to newcomer, standing tall in his black cloak with the hood thrown back.
Ignoring the obvious disruption that his presence had caused, Tenfis waved to the two men flanking him one step behind. One was a giant who practically had to squat to enter and the other was a familiar face that was unusually silent.
A draft teased the candles and torches, casting light and shadow in a fluttering dance that seemed to bring out the red tint of Tenfis’s mane of light brown hair. His usual wide grin and the expression of one on the verge of laughter was replaced by a small smile of bemusement. He found it amusing that, invariably, every Hunter ended up idolising the Exorcists as if they were gods.
Walking unhurriedly to the counter, he could feel every eye in the room trained on him. With an expression that was bordering on smug, he sat himself directly in front of Dortan and propped his chin up with his hand while his elbow rested on the back of his other palm.
He returned Dortan’s stare for slightly longer than necessary.
“Where is the boy?”
On closer examination, Dortan was a lot tenser than the others in his establishment. He reminded Tenfis of a taut bowstring, ready to snap into action at any moment, whereas the other Hunters sat speechless like dazed deer.
“Dunno what you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” grunted Dortan, waiting slightly longer than he should have to reply.
Suddenly, Tenfis threw his head back and laughed uproariously. It was as though all the built of tension of the room had exploded out of him and the sound was deafening as it pierced the silence. Hunters began to mutter, but spoke in hushed tones, as if afraid to draw attention to themselves.
“The boy, Dortan,” Tenfis repeated when he finally stopped laughing. “What other boy could I be talking about.”
Unable to avoid it any longer, Dortan opted for a nonchalant shrug. “Dunno. Went out almost a week ago.”
Tenfis chuckled to himself, having not fully mastered his mirth yet. Beside him, his companions shuffled their feet uncomfortably. The smaller of the two was looking around nervously as much of the attention directed to Tenfis had shifted to him.
“Dunno what’s so funny either, boy.”
This comment threatened to send Tenfis into another fit of laughter. He took a deep breath to control himself and laid his palms down on the counter to allow him to lean forward conspiratorially.
“It’s funny because you’re in such a unique position, Dortan. It’s like you’ve walked into a battlefield and are held down by the crossfire. You belong to neither side but you are at the mercy of both. That’s what I find so funny, Dortan.”
There was a moment of silence until Dortan grunted noncommittally and shrugged. Picking up an empty glass, he began to clean it with a rag as if Tenfis was not there.
He sighed and all the humour vanished instantly from his face, to be replaced by cold, calculating seriousness.
“The boy, Dortan. Don’t make me ask again.”
“Asked for rope, a snare and some rations,” said Dortan without looking up. “Didn’t tell me where he was going but figured he went south.”
Tenfis smiled again.
“Thank you.”
* * *
He awoke in a daze.
When he tried to groan, he found the sound got caught in his throat in an odd sensation. Reaching up to massage his throat, he found himself unable to move his arms.
A momentary panic swept over him. He felt as if he had lost control of his body.
After struggling for a moment, he rolled onto his face and realised that he must be bound. Blinking quickly to clear his vision, he found himself in a dimly lit corner of a tent.
His head ached as he tried to piece together the last thoughts that had entered his mind before he had blacked out.
Tents ... there had been three. Pitched around a pool.
With a jolt, his memories flooded back. There had been red eyes.
Besides the sinister connotations of having red eyes, it was unnatural. He had never seen nor heard of anyone in Sigal with eyes like that. There were all shades of blue, green and brown, but never red. Even his own pale blue-grey eyes were considered an abnormality.
His conclusion was that his kidnappers were either witches, the hue of their eyes a result of some unknown magic, or they were foreigners. He had heard of the many great nations beyond the borders of Lumir, but that was the limit of his worldly experience.
He rolled on his back and forced himself upright into a sitting position. His wrists were bound tightly behind his back and his elbows pressed against his body by another rope. His ankles and knees were likewise bound and a cord of rope held a gag in his mouth. As soon as he took notice of the gag, it became painfully uncomfortable. He tried to turn his mind away from it but its nagging discomfort remained.
The tent flap was down but nobody was inside. A pair of blankets were neatly rolled on one side of the tent and a comically short-legged table on the other side. Aion sat directly facing the tent flap, a slim support pole with an unlit torch rising up between him and the exit.
The fabric of the tent looked opaque so he knew it was dark outside. If it were still daylight, it was likely that some of the sun’s glow would have leaked through. This reassured Aion; he had only been unconscious for a matter of hours. On the other hand, it was also possible that he had been out for over a full day and it was his second night of capture.
His head throbbed in pain, driving any further thought out of his mind. The gag in his mouth dried up his saliva, adding to his already desperate thirst.
Unable to think clearly, he lay down again. He tried to fight the urge to sleep but quickly, the blackness took him.
He awoke again, to the uncomfortable feeling of something rough being drawn across his skin.
His eyes flew open, only to shut again instantly with a grimace.
Slowly, he cracked open his eyelids, letting his eyes adjust to the near-blinding light. Through these slits, he took a look at his situation.
His first reaction was not good.
He seemed to be moving but he could discern little else due to the large quantities of dust being blown into his face. He heard the clopping sound of horses but did not feel the expected bouncing.
Briefly after this thought, he came to a realisation that made his assessment of the situation go from not good to very bad. The rough feeling was the gritty, parched earth. He was being dragged behind horses by his feet. If it wasn’t for the gag, he was sure he’d have swallowed a liberal amount of the dust that the horses were kicking into his face.
He began to list to the side and soon found himself in the uncomfortable position where half his face and chest were dragging across the floor. Struggling to return to a sitting position, he managed to blind himself with more dust as he unconsciously opened his eyes to better balance himself. The badlands around him were still too compact to turn into a desert but they were well on their way. Instead of sand, the compact, rocky earth gathered a film of dust as the elements whittled away at the surface. Most of this was now on Aion’s face.
Suddenly, the dragging stopped and he was conscious of men dismounting. He lay still with his eyelids clamped firmly over irritating flecks of dust that felt as if they were small rocks. Regardless, he willed himself into stillness, each moment dragging on into an uncomfortable, torturous eternity where he expected, at any moment, the cruel touch of metal on his skin.
Someone shouted something that he could not comprehend. A pair of rough hands grabbed him and forced him up. Realising that playing dead wasn’t going to work, he forced his eyes open but could not stop himself from blinking at the irritating grit in his eyes.
There were six men, their bodies full wrapped in white rolls of cloth in a similar style to what Aion wore. Even their cloaks, the same rusty brown as the land around them, resembled Aion’s. The only difference was that their wrappings covered their faces too, leaving only the hair and eyes exposed. For a moment he was hopeful; perhaps they thought he was one of their people? Then he realised that would have made the whole knocking him unconscious and dragging him around rather unnecessary.
Two of the men knelt beside him, holding him in so firmly that he could barely move. Of the other four that were still seated in their saddles, one pulled his horse around and reined in as close to Aion as possible without trampling him. Aion could see this one was different from the others. While the others were wrapped entirely in white, this one had stripes of blue mixed in along his sword arm and another band of blue across his forehead. As he settled his horse, the sun glanced off a small metal badge on his cloak above his heart.
“You Lumir person?”
The accent was thick but he could understand it and nodded slowly in reply.
“You come Siddharth no caravan. Maybe spy?”
He didn’t know what ‘Siddharth’ was but he suspected that he was being accused of attempting to spy on a foreign nation because he had travelled alone, rather than with a merchant caravan. Knowing his answer made little difference, he shook his head in denial.
“Maybe young boy. Maybe good spy.” He spoke haltingly before pausing for a moment. From his angle and due to the strangers’ attires, he could not read any emotion on the man’s face, but he was evidently thinking. Finally, he proclaimed: “You come Sahartha with us. Maybe execute. Maybe slave.”
With that, the two men holding him released their grip and resaddled. They manoeuvred their horses back into formation and the group began to ride again, dragging Aion behind them.
For what felt like hours, he fought to stay on his back, but the bumps and jolts along his uncomfortable ride threatened to tilt him onto his face. After a long process of trial and error, he found the best he could do was to stare at the back of the horse dragging him. Watching the large packs and bedroll hanging off the animal’s rump seemed to give him a little more sense of balance.
As the sky began to show signs of darkening, he could no longer fight off the creeping blackness that sought to overwhelm his consciousness. Dehydration was taking its toll on him and soon the large amount of cuts and grazes he had sustained would add blood loss into the equation. His skin was raw and bleeding and his vision blurry.
Soon the arid backdrop faded as transparent scenes played across his mind’s eye. He could still see the endless expanse of drought-stricken land but other images moved too, as if his delusion was a thin fabric lain across the solid colour of reality. Unable to muster to strength to stave off the memories that he did not wish to relive, he could do nothing but watch, delirious and helpless.
He saw the manila walls, no longer spotless but painted with blood. The horror was sharply contrasted by a series of brief memories, moments of happiness. He saw his first kill, his second, and every kill since. The final looks upon their faces were frighteningly vivid. He saw his dark, empty room from the corner where the bed nestled under the single window and recalled the countless nights where tears had broken through his mask and loneliness had gnawed away at his resolve.
The images surged on relentlessly.
Then he saw a young girl who always approached him as if he was just another boy. She made him feel normal.
“I’ve always thought of you as my friend.”
By the time it was dark, he was unconscious again, dragging limply across the floor with his head lolling lifelessly.
This time when he awoke he was not as confused.
He saw the same interior of the same tent, with its contents in almost the exact same position. He looked down at himself and was horrified. His skin was completely torn away in many places, the friction of his transport having torn through his clothing. Blood had soaked into his white bandages, staining them with little red flowers that bloomed on the now dusty orange material.
The only good thing about his situation was that his gag had been removed. Not that his mouth was any less dry. This was the fourth night he had spent with his captives and they had only fed him once – a small piece of strange, hard bread and a bit of dried meat. If he was conscious at night, they allowed him one mouthful of water.
Despite the time that had passed, nobody had spoken to him. Every day felt identical to the last, numbing his mind with the repetitive cycle of pain, unconsciousness and awakening. He knew it was the fourth night but if he did not think about it, he felt as if this was his daily life. The suffering just stretched on without any sign of abating. It did not help that they travelled leisurely, trotting along as if Aion was not close to death – as he felt – and that they had all the time in the world.
A rustle of movement disrupted the monotony of his captivity and thus piqued his attention. A few silent moments passed and then he could hear the crashing thunder of galloping horses.
Deadened by the monotony and unending pain, he rolled himself to the tent flap and poked his head out, desperate for any change in the daily routine so that he could feel like something might change.
Arrayed around the camp stood the six men that had captured Aion. They faced the oncoming horses with their knees slightly bent, their bodies taut and ready to explode into action. Each one of them carried a large, wicked looking sword fashioned from what looked like a single piece of metal. The hilts were only safe to grip due to their being wrapped thickly. There was no guard but curves and hooks near the base of the weapon could be used in a similar fashion. The weapons looked like a long, stylised image of a single flame and for a moment, he thought he could remember the name of the weapon.
As the riders approached, all other thoughts fled him. There were three strangers in long black cloaks, their hoods over their heads to protect their eyes from some of the dust. Two were normal sized and the last was huge, his cloak coming slightly short of his knees. Almost larger than his horse, this rider looked almost comical.
Suddenly, Aion was certain there was only one person in the world as big as that man. He didn’t know whether to laugh and run towards them or flee in panic.
The riders slowed their mounts as they neared the six men. Pulling up, they dismounted and approached slowly, with their palms up to show that they were not hostile. The giant and the shorter of the three riders flanked one man who reached up slowly to pull back his hood and reveal a friendly smile.
He spoke briefly with the leader of the six men who had taken Aion hostage, before looking over the man’s shoulder at Aion.
“I found you, lion cub! You’ve gotten yourself into some trouble here. I’ll get you in a second.”
Aion recognised the voice as the stranger who had given him the mission. He was an Exorcist!
Feeling his hopes rise at dizzying speeds his heart almost burst when the Exorcist was cut off. Shouting short sharp words, the leader of the six positioned himself between Aion and his would-be saviours.
The Exorcist replied in the same language but from the tone of things, negotiations weren’t going well. The two argued back and forth with rising intensity until finally, all six men crouched low and drew back their weapons to ready themselves for attack.
In response, the Exorcist threw the edges of his cloak over his shoulders with a deft motion of his hands to reveal a gleaming silver breastplate with a small stylised sun in gold over the heart: the mark of the Exorcists. His gloved hand moved slowly to rest on the hilt of his sword, its scabbard hanging so low at his side that it almost touched the floor where it glowed beside the metal plates sown into the black fabric of his aketon to protect his shins.
As if a switch had been flicked, the Exorcist stood with deadly poise, exuding power and menace so strong that it made the air thick with tension. The breeze died and it seemed the entire landscape went silent in anticipation. The strain was so great that Aion froze, unwilling to move a muscle, as if the slightest disturbance would cause the situation to explode.
The six men deferred to their leader, waiting for his signal. Finally, they saw a small shake of the head. Straightening, they clipped their large swords into the straps across their backs and the tension in the air dissipated as if it were nothing but a memory.
“A smart move,” laughed the Exorcist. “You might have been able to kill me but neither of us would profit from losing men to fight over a boy.”
Two of the men who had captured him approached and grabbed him roughly. Not bothering to untie him, they practically threw him at the Exorcist’s feet.
“You’ve had better days, I’m guessing.” He laughed, all traces of his former menace gone. “My name is Tenfis, I was the one who gave you this botched mission.”
Tenfis’s companions came closer and Aion saw that they were indeed Groot and Lux. Quickly, Lux set about freeing Aion from his bonds while Groot made an effort to avoid eye contact.
Aion struggled to his feet but collapsed back into Lux’s arms. Days of misuse made his legs unstable, as if for a moment he had forgotten how to stand. Hunger, dehydration and blood less made his whole body feel weak, and any movement he tried to make only resulted in an awkward trembling motion.
Tenfis’s look sobered for a moment as he observed Aion’s condition. “Better bring the horses, he won’t be able to walk for a while.”
Groot hastened to obey while Lux cradled Aion. While it would have been a stretch to call them friends, they both shared a common past and were united by both their plight and the Hunting Hall. If not friends, they were at least comrades.
As the giant figure of Groot returned with an equally sized horse, he grabbed Aion by the shoulders and lifted him up onto the back of the beast as if he was just another one of the empty saddlebags upon which Groot laid him. Clinging unsteadily to the horse’s dark brown coat, he felt fatigue from all the excitement sink in. Knowing that he had only moments of consciousness left, he took one last look around.
The six men that had taken him captive were crouched warily around their campfire. Their weapons were replaced by food but they looked no less menacing. Their leader made eye contact with Aion for a second and he marvelled at his good fortune. If he hadn’t been found, who knows what the future would have held? He’d either be dead or a slave for life.
Aware that Aion’s consciousness was slipping, Lux pushed him towards the neck of the horse and mounted behind him. Guiding the horse into a gentle canter, he followed the retreating forms of Groot and Tenfis.
The gentle bouncing of the horse’s back lulled Aion back to sleep where he dreamed of the past, of blood and regret and a time where his father had bounced him up and down on his knee.
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