The Banished (Chapter One)

Chapter One

 Storm clouds boiled, black and menacing, convulsing and spitting out their rage. Lightning flashed, hail broke against the ground, and thunder boomed with ear-shattering pressure.

 Atarin struggled forward amidst the watery hell, rain and wind lashing against him, stinging his face and making his spiky mane of platinum blond whip in all directions. He raised an arm to shield what he could from his eyes, the other clutching the massive broadsword that was strapped to his back.

 The cold did not bother him – indeed, his leather outfit, torn and weather-beaten, had no sleeves – nor did the actual water, the chill seeping into his bones. But the elements beat against him, making him stumble and push back, harrowing his journey, turning the grey dirt to a quagmire that sucked at his brown hobnailed boots. 

 Lightning rent the air, and Atarin saw his destination. Sharply outlined amidst the storm, huge stone ruins dominated the bare landscape, most impressive the remains of a steel water tower, swaying slightly in the gale. As Atarin drew nearer, he could hear its ominous creak, like a thousand tormented souls, knives grating against his nerves.

 Finally he struggled up to the entrance of the ruins. They were all the more impressive up close, the stone looking bluish-black in the storm. He assumed they had once been a castle of sorts, for there was a front entrance, a side of the wall caved in, and only one of the supporting columns, all ten times Atarin’s impressive height, remained standing.

 He was so close... now his questions would be answered.

 Atarin squared his shoulders and was about to step into the front gate, when BOOM, a flash of searing white electricity zapped down, aimed precisely for Atarin.

 His arm moved superhumanly fast, and the lightning changed direction slightly, discharging into his upraised sword, arms bent slightly, brows scrunched up in concentration. If he blew this, he was a goner. The wind would sweep up his ashes, and nothing would remain to mark his existence.

 Through the haze of ozone, Atarin raised his head slightly, pale blue eyes searching for the direction of the strike.

 There!

 High up on a teetering slab of stones, Atarin glimpsed the merest outline of a figure, something like a cloak or jacket billowing in the wind, making the figure appear huge. Atarin could have sworn the figure raised a disproportionally long arm in salute… but that was impossible. No ordinary human was able to see that clearly and in such a storm. Unless…

 Atarin screamed, recognizing his opponent, and, arms heaving, pointed the super charged sword at the figure. His sword glinted, becoming like liquid silver, and then blade pulsed and released its contents at the figure, a massive white jet of plasma.

“Zorak!” Atarin howled. He jumped, impossibly high up, towards the figure, sword bent diagonally, guarding his chest. Ten meters, fifteen, until he could discern the figure more clearly through the storm. The cloak was actually a black leather trench coat, and the figure’s arm had seemed so long because he was raising a three meter tall saber. His long white hair was spread around him like a halo.

 Zorak met Atarin’s strike almost languidly, sparks flying up where the blades clashed. Realizing he had little time before gravity re-asserted its hold on him, Atarin slashed outwards in a broad arc, aiming for Zorak’s head.

 As he had hoped, Zorak jumped backwards, arms spread, legs bent, and landed, balancing on one foot, on an outcropping of what had once been a roof beam, allowing Atarin to land safely on the column.

 Without pausing, Atarin jumped again, joint legs bent backwards, grasping his sword with arms, forming a half moon. Instantly Zorak jumped sideways, smiling faintly, landing on a precarious beam farther up the structure.

 Atarin’s blow cleaved the column in two, knocking him to the right into a wall with a sickening crunch, forearm snagged onto a metal shard, piercing it deeply.

 Zorak used this opportunity to strike, diving down headfirst like a bullet, arm outstretched, aiming to impale Atarin.

 Atarin countered by tearing himself away and jumping at the last second, using the wall like a springboard. Their swords met with a horrible screech as they crossed.

 Zorak somersaulted so that he was once again facing Atarin, boots planted on the wall, and in the split second before he fell, he jumped.

 They met again in mid-air, slashing and hacking. Atarin raised his sword to block a strike to his head, then whirled, aiming to cleave Zorak’s legs. Zorak bent down, blocking the strike with the flat of his blade.

 Then the two fell towards the pavement ninety meters below them, still exchanging a flurry of devastating blows. Shrapnel and bits of masonry fell at either side.

 Zorak spun slightly, then planted a kick on Atarin’s chest, propelling both of them through a window, shattering the remaining panes of glass.

 Almost near the ground now, Atarin grabbed Zorak’s foot and heaved him down onto the ground. They both landed painfully on the ground. Atarin was sure he had busted a rib. He coughed up some blood.

 They both stood, Atarin supporting himself on his sword, stained with his own blood, dripping slowly from the gaping wound he had inflicted himself, other arm clasping his chest, heart beating rapidly. Zorak brushed a strand of hair from his face and spat, looking as composed as ever.

“You’ve gotten better in the past two years,” Zorak acknowledged, yelling to make himself heard over the storm.

 They were in an enclosure, which would have been unreachable had they not dropped in via the caved in roof. Shingles lay crushed amongst the masonry, ivy creeping up the walls.

“I’ve practiced,” Atarin panted. “It’s been a while.”

“The lightning trick was impressive,” Zorak admitted. “Why are you here?”

“Same reason as you,” Atarin replied. He circled around the stone clearing, trying to get a good angle from which to strike. Zorak mimicked him, sword pointing down. Atarin decided to let him talk… Zorak was a master, but at least Atarin would confirm his suspicions. “Looking for the scroll.”

“You’re too late,” Zorak laughed.

 Ice coated Atarin’s stomach.

“Y-you have it?” He whispered. He could tell by Zorak’s body language he was preparing a new attack. He braced himself.

“No,” replied Zorak. “It’ not here!” He threw himself at Atarin, feet barely touching the ground, sword her horizontally, point aimed towards Atarin’s heart.

Atarin met the strike, derailing it so that Zorak’s sword slashed the stone, leaving a deep gouge. He lunged forward, seizing his chance now that Zorak was off-balance.

 However, Atarin had underestimated the white-haired man’s agility. Zorak bent almost double, sword over his heart, so that Atarin’s monstrous blade ripped through the air a hair’s breadth from Zorak’s aquiline nose.

 Zorak dropped to one foot and used the other to sweep Atarin’s legs from under him. However Atarin jumped backwards, feet hooking a ledge of a window. He jumped again, higher, so that Zorak was little more than a speck under him.

 Zorak smiled wider. Atarin had gotten better. He was what, fourteen now? His power should have manifested by now. He flexed his legs once, twice, then covered all the distance that separated them, punching upwards towards the boy. Atarin spun once, twice, until he was spread-eagled, looking down at Zorak’s oncoming blade.

 At the last minute, Atarin slashed sideways, using the force of the blow to hurl himself sideways, onto the rusty water tower. His feet found purchase on the ledge that ran around it. From up here, the castle ruins looked much smaller. The tower swayed, and Atarin grabbed a railing, leaning outwards so that only half his body was attached to the tower, and turned his head up, trying to glimpse Zorak.

 There! The man had continued higher, sword arm stretched to a side, other clenched in a fist by his hip. Atarin chuckled. What did he want to do? All Atarin had to do was shift slightly and Zorak would plummet to his death. While, as a Champion, he and Zorak could defy gravity and such rules for a while, they’d always reassert themselves in the end. All this flashed through Atarin’s mind as Zorak flipped downwards and spun towards Atarin, revolving faster and faster, a silver aura emanating from him, concentrating around his sword.

 So this was Zorak’s power, Atarin mused. Silver aura meant he was an Immortal. Hell, no wonder he was throwing himself to certain death… Immortals could only be killed if they used too much of their aura. Otherwise they could heal any would, even regenerate body parts, they didn’t need to eat, sleep, or drink… but of course that only sped up their decaying process.

 Well, time to show Zorak he had some tricks of his own up his sleeve. He drew upon his reserves of power, and his aura flared metallic gold around him, the waves of energy shaking the water tower to a critical level.

“YAAH!” Both the warriors screamed and met in a flurry of pyrotechnic destruction, their auras keeping them steady in the air. Atarin swung his sword, arm surrounded by a web of golden threads. Zorak blocked, sword shimmering silver. A gold and silver shock wave exploded from the two, pulverizing masonry and structures. The water tower groaned forebodingly. The force of the two clashing auras was so incredible that the sky cleared, dark clouds boiling away, wind ceasing.

“A Master,” Zorak breathed, sparks fountaining up from the clashing blades. “And a powerful one,” he grunted, as they were jostled to and fro by the contending auras.

“But enough!” At that, both the Champions slashed outwards, the force of the impact blowing them sideways and down, smashing into the ground, unconscious. The shock wave was so powerful the water tower rent apart, falling with a ponderous screech, raining down what water had seeped in from the rains, the greyish metal, thoroughly rusted, smashing apart.