I know I know, where have I been...I was stumped for a bit...a little bit of a hard time deciding where the story should go (a lot of different possibilities have occurred to me), but then I decided to wing it for a bit and just see where the story goes.
So without further ado...the next chapter.
Chapter 12
Demarion…they killed your father, my mother’s words echoed in my mind.
The village killed my parents? A thousand hurled insults came back to me.
They had murdered my parents and then spent the last twenty years telling me it had been me.
And if I didn’t commit the crimes…then everything they’ve done against me…I could feel the corners of the chest digging into my palms.
“Demarion.” I snapped to my left. Standing just inside the room was the earthscribe. He was looking straight at me. At first I thought he could see me, then I thought of the box. Forcing my hands to relax, I removed them causing the incandescent script to fade back into the wood tone. The Scribe’s eyes flickered about; he could no longer be sure where I was. They swept over the bodies of the men; Effedes, the only remaining survivor writhed in pain as he held his bleeding heel. “Are you anything more than a demon?”
I said nothing, the masked man was one of them.
“I’ve read some of the messages your parents left for you.” He stepped closer to my chest.
I won’t let you keep this from me. It’s mine.
“I have no idea what you must feel now. Relief from a burden that was never yours, replaced by vendetta. An impossible fury against these people…against me for adding to their crimes.” Another step. “But what of now. You are suddenly faced with a choice. How will you repay them? Free of your guilt will you forgive…or will you become what they always said you were? Demarion…or Evil D?”
“Stop saying that!” The words boiled from my mouth. “How dare you? You come to my village to kill me for profit, burn my home, and then use my name,
my name to try and make me forgiving…What I should do is burn this place, kill the parents and leave their children orphans like me.”
“And make a thousand more just like you.”
Nothing intelligible came to mind. Thought replaced by burning anger. I stepped silently forward to within arms reach of my machete. Stooping suddenly down, I grabbed the weapon and flung it at the Scribe. Its thin edge sung through the air, but the masked figure reacted fast enough to angle his body and avoid a direct strike. The weapon sliced over his shoulder, but his work was already in motion…
His hands moved together, rapidly tracing symbols in the air. Dashing forward I snatched another blade from the floor as I passed. I was no further than fifteen feet away, when the scribe’s hands touched, as they had at the firing earlier that night. The air seemed to thicken instantly as though I had run into a wall of water.
Before I could tell what was happening I stumbled and fell on my face. Strangely, though I didn’t catch myself the fall didn’t hurt much. I turned my palms to the ground and tried to push myself up. My body was lifting, but it was taking enormous effort. Instead of easily moving my lithe two hundred pounds, it was as if I weighed five times that much. Every stabilizing muscle shook with strain, every action became inexplicably exhausting.
I looked up; to my frustration the scribe was standing normally, unaffected by this bog of exhaustion that smothered me. The edges of my vision began to close, darkness swallowing the world. My head felt light, the muscles inside my chest began to burn. Each beat of my heart tempted it with failure, each breath too hard to finish.
I fell back down.
So I’ve finally lost. The thought came with despair, and unexpected relief. If I’d lost, at least the struggle was over.
My only regret…it feels wrong to quit…let them win…
With my vision failing I could barely see as six men stormed into the room. I couldn’t make out their faces, but I heard their gasps of astonishment and anger. I heard the scribe throw out a warning to stop them where they were, but they rushed in with shouts of expected revenge.
The strongest of them had not taken four steps inside the room before they were all motionless on the floor. The Scribe cursed under his breath. My eyes failed me, consciousness slipping away, but as I slipped away I could hear the sounds of the men struggling. Their aged hearts probably didn’t handle the strain as well. The Scribe cursed again and the effect abruptly stopped to the sound of a subtle friction.
I could hear footsteps vibrating through the floorboards against my cheek. Someone was coming towards me.
Get up…focus! I ordered myself waiting for the choked, exhausted sensation to pass. I was still clutching my blade so I knew the Scribe could find me. A moment later, I felt a biting grip on my neck and a knee in my back.
My vision returned showing me the six men recovering as well. Though they had been conquered faster by the scribe’s craft, they had not endured it as long. “Good…” Durat said with a gleam in his eye, pushing himself off his knees. He pulled a dagger from his belt as he began unsteadily towards me. “Now it dies.”
I’ve lost…end it…
“No.” At first I thought I had dreamed the word.
It couldn’t have come from him…could they? I turned my head to see if the voice would come again from beneath the mask. Still holding me with one hand, the scribe reached beneath his coat and pulled out an iron manacle that he quickly latched around my neck. He made a brief series of signs that I could not fully see, but looked similar to the ones he had just done. After this he lifted himself off me. “No, this man will not be touched, yet,” he said as he finally pulled off the black mask and cowl that had covered his face. His dark hair was contrasted by crystalline blue eyes, and the fire in them by what seemed unnatural ware upon his face. I had never seen my face, but I couldn’t help wondering if it would look like his.
Durat’s lips tightened in a snarl. “We had a deal, Earthscribe.”
“Services for payment. The contract is not complete until I receive payment.”
“You’ll get your money when the job is done,” Durat spat.
The bright-eyed stranger was undeterred. “In my profession I have learned not to trust promissory notes. Beyond that…” I thought I saw a glance. “I’d like to see him get a fair trial…he is not the only wrong doer here.”
At that all the men stepped forward, their faces flushing. Durat at the lead strode up to the scribe until he was arms distance from him. “I don’t know what you think you know, Manmas Telfner…but we’ve dealt with your kind before.”
The Scribe didn’t even flinch. “Not my kind.”
Durat was not a smart man. That, I knew. Still what he did next surprised me.
He put out a hand to shove Manmas. Manmas simply touched his chest and the larger man shot backwards as though every cell in his body had been imparted with tremendous force. The other men instantly lost their defiance as Durat slammed against the wall.
“Bring the Council and we will complete our business.”
