“Sire, one of our scouts has returned. He says he has news of the utmost importance.”

The Holy one looked at the speaker. One of his many aides. His legs were shaking ever so slightly. Being the focus of the Holy One’s gaze could do that. The man was sweating profusely. Stains were forming on his red livery.

The Holy One yawned and sat a bit straighter in his throne. He pulled his white suit straight, and flicked some lint off the front of it. His face was bored.

“Send him in.” He commanded, making a slight gesture with his hand. Immediately from the side of the room another servant clothed in Red rushed to him with a goblet of clear liquid. The Holy One took a deep swallow as he watched his aide bow to him and hurry out of the throne room.

The Holy One looked around himself. He needed none of it, but it was all so magnificent. The high vaulted ceiling. Columns of white marble rising from the polished granite floor, flaring into canopy of marble branches. Hanging from them, lanterns that basked the room in a warm light. The white walls covered with beautiful murals, depicting the Holy One in various moods and temperaments. The multitude of aides, all dressed in red standing along the wall, heads bowed, waiting for an order. They would happily throw their lives away for the Holy One.

There was a sound as a door opened somewhere at the far end of the throne room. The Holy One watched as the sweating aide led two other. The aide was talking fast in a hushed voice, clearly instructing them of proper etiquette. The two were dressed in the white of the military. The golden phoenix on their fronts indicating their legion. They were nodding to the aide’s words.

The trio stopped a fair distance from the Holy One. The aide bowed deeply and walked fast off to the left and stood against the wall. The other two fell to their knees, and touched their foreheads to the granite floor. They stood up, heads bowed, waiting to be commanded.

“Speak.” The Holy One said in a bored voice. He looked to another of his aides lining the wall. The aide bowed once and hurried out of the room.

“Oh mighty one! Our lives are your gift. We exist but to serve you. Being in your presence is the crown jewel of our lives. Your glory-“ the dark man on the left spoke in a toneless voice, as if reciting from memory.

“Enough. Do not waste my time with unnecessary pleasantries. Get to the point.” The Holy One interrupted.

The man began to stammer an apology. A cold look from the Holy One silenced him. He swallowed again and said,

“Sire. We were tasked to scout for potential servants in the beyond the hills to the North. Two days ago, we came upon a small town. There couldn’t have been more than a thousand residents. We stopped to eat and restock our rations when someone caught our attention. A boy, Sire. No more than nineteen years old. We followed him and he was attacked in an alley way by a group of men. We do not know why, but there seemed to be a previous grudge. He moved faster than any normal man could, incapacitating three of them within the blinking of an eye. The fourth drew a gun Sire, and shot the boy. The bullets fell out of the air as they approached him. They did not hit him. I have the bullets here, if you would care to inspect them.”

The man bowed and put his hand in his pocket. The Holy One signaled and an aide darted forward. He took the bullets the scout offered him and brought them to the Holy One. The bullets were still perfectly shaped. The only evidence of them being fired was the groove marks along their side. The Holy One turned back to the men.

“So where is he? Bring him before me.”

The two men looked at each other. They bent low to the ground. The dark one said,

“Forgive us Sire, but we were unable to capture him.”

“And why is that? Surely no matter how powerful, an immature Godless one is no match for two of my scouts?” The voice came from behind them.

General Nevadrian strode into the room. A red liveried aide on his heels. His bright golden armor glinting in the light of the lanterns that hung from above. His wings were folded, hanging close to his back. The feathers ruffling slightly in the air of his passing. At his waist, a sword whose blade seemed to be made of light itself. It shone with a fierce intensity.

“Ah. Sir, I wasn’t exactly following him.” Said the other man in a quiet voice.

“Where were you?” Nevadrian’s mouth clamped into a thin line. His eyebrows furrowed.

“He was amusing himself, weren’t you?” The Holy One chuckled.

“Forgive me Sire! Please, I beg of you!” The man bent even lower to the ground. The dark man looked away. He knew what was going to happen.

A whoosh of air as Nevadrian leapt forward. A rasp of metal as his sword flew out of its sheath, a muted gasp followed by a thud as the man’s head hit the floor. Another louder thud as his body followed suit. The dark man winced as blood splashed on him. He shuffled to the left slightly to escape the pool that was forming.

“Why must you always make a mess, Nevadrian?” The Holy One asked, exasperated. He motioned with his head. A team of servants rushed forward to clean the sticky puddle off the floor.

“I live but to serve you, Sire” Nevadrian intoned, bowing deeply.

“As you were. You. Continue your report” He barked to the dark man.

The dark man bowed again and said,

“The town Sire. It is a few days journey away. If you send a detachment of the guard with me, I shall return with the Godless one.” Thoughts of rewards and wings had been replaced by self preservation.

“Nevadrian, send some men with him. If this one is as he says, it may be fruitful to study him.”

Nevadrian bowed low, and pulled the dark man to his feet. Holding him by the scruff of his neck, he marched the man out in front of him, his armored boots clapping loudly on the granite floor.

The Holy One slouched back in his throne. It had been a while since anything of excitement had happened. The pool of blood had been cleaned up, the body taken away. The faint smell of iron still hung in the air though. The Holy One closed his eyes. He was greatly looking forward to meeting this boy.

****

Mycal stared at the wooden bowl in front of him. The stew his wife had made was still hot. Steam rose from it in little wisps. He picked up his spoon and began eating. The day had just begun. His inn was empty. His wife was busying herself cleaning the tables. A quick splash of water, an even quicker wipe with her rag and she would move on, her feet rustling on the straw that littered the floor.

Mycal took another mouthful. A fresh crop had been harvested. He would need to break out at least two kegs of beer today. He dreaded the heavy lift. Last time he had tried to move two kegs, he had landed flat on his back, one keg lying across his chest, the other breaking open just behind his head. IT had taken him almost a week to get the beer smell out of his thinning grey hair.

Mycal finished his soup and stood up. His wife looked to him and flashed him a quick smile. Mycal waddled over and planted a wet kiss on her. She acted like she was repulsed, but Mycal knew how much his wife loved those sloppy kisses of his. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and trudged into the kitchen. He threw his bowl in the wash basin. He heard the door being opened. A quick glance out of the window told him whoever it was early. It was barely light. He turned back to the door, when he heard his wife scream.

Mycal rushed out, moving as fast as his legs could carry his frame. Along the way he picked up a metal frying pan. The black stained metal looked tiny in relation to its wielders massive frame. He barged open the door, and poured into the common room, pan raised. He felt massive arms club him from both sides. The pan dropped from his fingers. He heard the clang as it hit the ground. Through darkening eyes he saw figures in white pulling his wife by the hair outside. She was screaming, but he could barely hear her. The world grew darker and quieter. Mycal was dimly aware of more blows rain down on him. He heard a sharp crack come from somewhere on his side followed by a jolt of pain. The world grew dark and his eyes closed.

When he came to, the first thing he realized was it was bright. He winced as light pierced his eyes. His head felt heavy, like it was filled with lead. He noticed that his arms were bound, and he was kneeling down in a row. He painfully looked to the side. To his left, he could make out the slight frame of Jifar. It looked like he had been crying. His eyes were red, his nose looked even more out of shape than usual. Mycal turned to his right. He cried out when he saw his wife, lying in the dirt. Her face looked swollen and bloody like she had been beaten. Her clothing looked torn. She was taking shallow, rasping breaths.

Mycal looked around him. He could tell that he was in the centre of the market. The brightly colored pavilions had been torn down. The wooden tables where hawkers would sell their wares had been broken into pieces of wood that lay by the side. A few of them looked like they had blood on them. He could see the townsfolk standing, arms bound, faces downcast, watched closely by men in white. The front of their uniforms emblazoned by a golden phoenix. Their faces set in expressions of contempt as they looked at the crowd of people they were controlling.

“Ah. Finally, you’re awake. I was about to send for a bucket of water.” Said a voice from behind Mycal. He felt strong arms lift him up slightly and turn him around, before they threw him to the ground. Tasting blood and dirt, he got back to his knees, his large bulk not aiding him. He saw a massive figure armored in Gold standing before him. He could only see up to his waist. It hurt too much for him to lift his head any higher A blade that seemed forged from light itself hung at his waist. From his shadow, it looked like he had a pair of wings on his back. Mycal’s head sagged onto his chest. He cried out as he felt it being pulled back. He opened his eyes to see the massive golden man looking down at him through pale red eyes.

“They tell me you’re the innkeeper. Is that right?” His voice was low, his tone condescending. But there was a subtle hint of menace behind it. Mycal took a breath, and answered,

“Aye. I be the innkeeper. What can I do fer ye?” He felt a sharp blow on his face that knocked him to the side. He crashed to the ground and spat out blood and a tooth. He slowly pulled himself back up.

“I do not care for your accent. Address my properly.” The golden man was grinning now.

“Yes, My lord. What can I do for you?”

“Much better. Now I’m looking for a young man. Maybe around eighteen or nineteen? My man here tells me you’re his uncle or some such? I believe you saved him from being executed for some offence he committed?”

Mycal thought hard. They were talking about Esterian.

“My memory’s pretty groggy. I can’t remember clearly.”

The golden man’s expression changed. He looked at Jifar who was still crying.

“Let’s see if this clears your memory a bit.” His wings flapped once, the force of it knocking Mycal backwards against the man who held his head back. Dust flew up in his face, stinging his eyes. The man darted forward. Mycal heard a rasping gurgle followed by screams from the townsfolk. He felt another gust of air, this time from behind him and the golden man was back to his original position. His white sword had a faint trickle of blood running down it. It dripped off the tip and fell to the ground.

“That man was crying too much anyway.” The golden man grinned again.

Mycal’s mind was racing. He just had to give Esterian up, and this would all end. But from somewhere deep in his mind, came the thought, Don’t be so naïve. There’s no chance you’re getting out of this alive. Mycal shook his head. The gauntleted fist of the man behind him cutting into his scalp. Mycal winced and said,

“There was such a boy in my inn. Maybe a week ago. I had never seen him before, but he reminded me of my nephew. I swear that’s all I know.”

The golden man looked upwards and sighed. He motioned with his hand. Mycal heard footsteps behind him, and he heard his wife screaming again. Mycal struggled against his captor, but a sharp blow to the back of his head ended his efforts. His head rocked forward, only to be pulled back again. He saw his wife, lying on the floor in front of him. The golden man bent down and picked her up by the neck. Mycal could hear her choking.

“Please, please! Not her. I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just don’t hurt my Marge.”

The golden man threw Marge back to the floor. She put her hands around her throat and sucked in air.

“Go on. I’m listening.” The golden man was looking at him.

“His name’s Esterian. He’s a good lad. He lives a bit to the West of here. Just follow the road West. You can’t miss their house. Now please. Let us go!”

The golden man stood up straight. He nodded to himself, and called out to his soldiers,

“Get ready to move. We leave as soon as we’re done.”

He bent back down to Mycal and whispered

“Thank you, Mycal. Because you were such a big help, I’ll let your wife die quickly.”

Mycal yelled out. Bestial rage overcoming him. He thrashed his arms behind him, desperate to break free. The golden man merely chuckled again and picked up Marge. Marge started screaming again. Her screams mingled with those coming from behind him.

“No please, I beg you. AARRGGHHHH!!” Mycal yelled.

The golden man flexed his hands once. A sickening crunch as Marge’s neck broke. He threw her lifeless body to the ground. A voice from behind Mycal called out,

“Sir. What do we do with the rest of them?”

“They are of no further use to us. Kill them all. Burn everything down. Turn this one around. I want him to see.”

Mycal felt himself being turned around. The lifeless body of his wife was the only thing he could see. He stopped fighting. He watched, detached as the soldiers threw balls of white light at the people. Their screams were oddly muted to Mycal’s ears. He saw his friends exploding in flashes of light. They tried to run, but the balls were just too fast for them Some fell protecting their children. Others tried to fight back. They fell to the soldiers blades. Explosions all around him. Mycal could feel the earth shake from the might of some of the blasts. He couldn’t hear any more. All he could see was grey. He felt another blast near him. He was no longer being held up. He crashed to the ground.

A flash as he sees his father, face scarred looking down at him. He feels his mother’s hands on him. He can smell freshly baked bread. Another flash and he’s outside, playing in the grass. He sees a girl with long black hair sitting quietly a little distance off. He walks up to her, taps her on the shoulder and introduces himself. The girl smiles at him, a smile made only cuter by the missing front teeth. Flash. He’s indoors now. He can hear bells. He looks down. He’s dressed well, a rose pinned to his chest. He feels a warmth in his left hand. He looks to see Marge in white standing beside him. Another flash. This time he’s sitting in the inn, after closing time. He pats his belly. Marge comes to him, looks him in the eye and says I love you. He feels a small pain in his heart. The inn grows darker. All he can hear is Marge’s voice telling him she loves him. Then quiet.

Nevadrian looked down at the corpse of the innkeeper. He hadn’t even flinched when he was run through. Nevadrian was disappointed. He liked it when they screamed in pain. He looked around. Most of the townsfolk were dead. A few survivors were being hunted down by his men. The town was burning. The acrid smell of burning wood and flesh made Nevadrian wrinkle his nose. He spat on the ground. The Holy One would be expecting news soon. He looked at the innkeeper’s body one last time, before flaring his wings. One flap, and another and he was airborne. He could leave and capture Esterian all by himself, but he was feeling happy. He wanted to see the fear in his eyes when a whole battalion of White clad soldiers broke down his door and dragged him screaming outside. Nevadrian hung in the air. The thought made his mouth water. He yelled,

“Hurry up! We leave immediately.”