The Banished (Chapter Two)

Chapter Two

“Atarin,” said a voice. Atarin cracked his eyes open and saw Zorak’s elfish face staring down at him, colorless eyes alive with sarcastic mirth. “Get up.” He offered him a black-gloved hand, and Atarin took it, uncertain. He had no idea where his sword was, but he noticed Zorak’s was sheathed. Leaden exhaustion gripped him. The fight had completely worn him out. He imagined Zorak, as an Immortal, was all the more tired. Hopefully this meant he posed no risk.

“Your sword is over there,” said Zorak, as if reading his mind. He pointed, and sure enough, Atarin saw it, lying amongst a pile of rubble, the blade still shimmering gold slightly.

 He dashed towards it immediately and scooped it up, meticulously polishing the blade with a hem of his torn sleeve, running his hand down the notched blade, lovingly caressing the engravings near the thin crosspiece. He felt Zorak’s eyes on the back of his head, but paid him no heed. Only when he was satisfied with his blade’s condition did he turn and ask “Why didn’t you kill me? I must have been knocked out for a while.”

 Zorak chuckled. “I actually only rose ten minutes before you, and spent that time looking for my sword.” He grimaced and drew the slender blade, showing Atarin a long crack that split from the hilt almost to the point. “It was buried under a piece of the water tower,” he explained.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Atarin, truly meaning it. For a Champion, their swords were more than just the source of their power, they were companions in hardship, almost like brothers in arms. Only a select few could properly mend Champion swords, so every gash was like a wound to their heart.

“No matter,” said Zorak. “But I’ll have to do something about it.”

“So what now?” Asked Atarin, uneasy. He blamed Zorak for much of what had happened that had led him on this accursed mission. Unbidden, memories sprang into his mind.

 He had been but six, and living with his mother. His father had died before him… he had vague memories of strong hands and blue eyes. His mother told him he had been a Champion, and a great man. High up in the Order. They lived in city slums, always hiding, though he was never told exactly why.

 Then Zorak came.

 One day, he had returned home to find the house up in flames, everything destroyed. And there, from the flames, he had seen his face, grinning cruelly, pointing a sword – the very same sword he carried now – at his mother’s throat.

“Run, little boy,” he had sneered.

“Run!” His mother had seconded, desperately. “Get the Testament Scrolls! They hold your destiny!” And then he, frightened by the white-haired man, had turned and ran. He’d never seen her again.

 From then, he’d stayed with friends of his mother’s… but he left at nine, realizing his path was a different one, certainly not tied to people that knew nothing of Champions, of which his mother spoke often, especially of a time when the Order staged a coup to overthrown the top Fifteen, of which his father had been part of. Her eyes always got misty when she spoke of that. So he had gone back to the ruins of his house, which had been untouched, and found, in a nook which would have been impossible to access had the fire not consumed the wall, his father’s sword. It had been hard to carry, impossible, were it not for his enhanced strength and brutal training routine which he imposed upon himself.

 So then he had journeyed around the city, stealing what little food he could, until he came across Violet, three years older than him, also living undercover with her father. She told him she was the daughter of the Number Ten of the order, and showed him the family tattoo, which all Order members possessed. Different shapes and colors regulated the power.

 He had stayed gone with Violet, and was raised there with stern care by her father, a man in his fifties by the name of Brontes. All the Order members had peculiar names, he realized. Their children usually had marginally more common names, Violet had told him. She was a studious, if a little eccentric, girl, who, like her father, was a Defender Champion. Defenders could use healing and shielding abilities, and were the only clan that could carry shields made of thunderbolt iron, the material Champion swords were made of.

 It had been Brontes that directed him to this place, and here he found himself. Atarin had no idea he’d find Zorak, though. The last time they had crossed paths was in a market-place of a port city… not much of it had remained after the battle.

“Atarin,” said Zorak, snapping him out of his trance. He pointed to the north with his sword. “The town of Riguala lies over the hills. From there you should be able to organize yourself. It’s half an hour from here.”

“What about you?” Atarin asked.

 Zorak pointed in the opposite direction.

“I’ll be going to the coast. I have a meeting with two other Order members.”

“Banished?” Asked Atarin, curious. It was a good idea, he knew, to be able to locate the other Banished. You never knew when one might need allies.

 Zorak shook his head.

“Order members. Bounty hunters. They’ve been on my trail for weeks. I’ve grown tired of them. Plus it’s been a while since I’ve tested myself against an Order member”

 With that, he turned and walked away, not looking back once.

 Atarin shrugged. Hey, if he had a deathwish, it wasn’t his concern. An Immortal he may be, but after the battle, he was sure any Champion would be worn out. He too walked away, jogging briskly towards the hills. He hadn’t eaten in three days, and drank little. From Rigualda he might be able to contact Violet.

Zorak walked through the city crowded city streets, attracting not little attention, though he had hidden his sword under his coat. Smoke traced patterns into the sky from the chimney stacks of the houses that lined the cobbled streets, and laughter and the chatter of conversation buzzed in the air. Ilyor was a port town, and always busy. He could see the sea from here, as the city was built on a hill, the waves glittering in the midmorning sun, creating shadow effects where it struck the merchant ships that bobbed in the water. Seagulls cawed, and a slight breeze brought the tangy smell of salt.

 Zorak breathed deeply and smiled. It had been so long since he’d been to the ocean. Maybe he’d wander down to the beach, provided the bounty hunters didn’t show up sooner. His stomach growled, and he realized he’d also best get something to eat, otherwise he’d be weakened in the fight which he was sure to encounter. He could sense the Order members, but not discern their exact location. He knew extremely talented Defenders could do that, but other clans couldn’t.

 However, he couldn’t stop thinking about Atarin. It was true, he did have the boy at his power, he could have killed him. But he enjoyed their sporadic encounters… and he felt something like pity towards him. It had been he who killed his mother… he only had vague memories of his own mother… less of his father. At the time he had been younger, desperate. He had been told to find the Scrolls, then there comes Atarin, with the exact same purpose. He couldn’t have allowed that… he still couldn’t allow it. But, he had realized only later, once the deed he still regretted was done, if there were two people searching for the scrolls, the more chance of it being found.

 Zorak thought all this as he moved down the rise, towards the ocean, which drew steadily nearer. He stopped at a stand in a corner, where a large, greasy man stood behind a grill and served a variety of… they could only be defined as foodstuffs… in equally greasy bags. He sniffed in disdain, but drew nearer nonetheless. Now he had to be practical. This was no time to be distracted. A disadvantage of being an Immortal was that his taste buds were dulled over time. Zorak had been imprisoned once in his life and held hostage many more times, so he had pretty much digested things that an ordinary human or even another Order member would recoil at.

“What can I get for you sir?” Asked the man, not even looking up.

 Zorak hesitated, staring at the glistening meat.

“Uh… that… thing you have on a stick,” he said, frowning. Up close, raw rats seemed like a more appetizing prospect. He had no idea what was on those things.

 Calmly, the man grabbed one from the rack overhead. However, when he looked up into Zorak’s frowning face, he faltered, paling.

“Z – Z –” he began.

  Zorak took the stick from the man’s shaking hand and turned, tossing a silver coin behind him as he went. He, as his infamous father before him, was something of a celebrity around the region of Ilyor and especially the homonymous town, where his father had been a regular customer at many merchant shops and his mother the boutiques which he remembered she defined as ‘charming’. 

 Zorak walked down towards the nearby beach, chewing thoughtfully on the stick. Therefore, he did not notice the man he had just bought his meal from quietly pack up his stand and run as fast as his pudgy legs could carry him in the opposite direction.

 Soon word spread that Zorak, the Immortal Avenger, as he was known, was here – for gossip in many places was stronger than currency – and the city, just like that, became akin to a ghost town. The streets cleared, shutters slammed closed, and a tense aura of anticipation spread like the plague from the area.

 Zorak was unaware of this frenetic scrambling to safety, but, strolling casually along beach, kicking up fine white sand as he did, he noticed an exodus towards the city. Shrugging, he ignored the panic. He was here for a purpose.

 The sea breeze was stronger here, and it ruffled his hair and made his coat flap impressively. The water was a flat expanse of glittering sapphire, occasionally disturbed by undulating ripples. Black, mossy rocks created a barrier in the distance, waves lapping gently at their feet, populated by seagulls and two figures side by side, one resting, sunbathing he assumed. Only when one of them turned and saluted him casually did he notice, glancing around, that they were the only people on the beach, and realized the Order bounty hunters had arrived.

 Zorak sighed and resumed walking at an even, steady pace, placing one hand on his sword hilt.

 The figures slid down from the rocks and strode forward, drawing their weapons. The one that had been sunbathing, Zorak noted, was a girl, maybe slightly older than him, whilst the other was a man in his forties. Usually the Order members were older, whilst the Banished were young, being the sons of the original Fifteen Champions. So the girl had to be the daughter of a deceased member.

 They stopped at a distance of twenty paces, seizing each other up. The girl was shorter than him by at least a good ten centimeters, slim, tan and with the physique of an athlete more than a warrior. She wore a miniskirt, which emphasized her seductive figure, but, most importantly, the two long knives she had strapped to her thighs. Her hair was curly and dyed light green, matching the thorny tattoo that covered her bare shoulder.

 The man, impressively muscled, wore a muscle shirt and leather combat pants. He sported a massive scimitar, and had cruel features. 

“Let’s get the introductions over with,” he said. “I’m Virgoth, ranked Number Twelve in the Order.”

 “Morgan, ranked Number Seven in the Order,” said the girl, twirling a little as she spoke.

“The Order had the audacity to send a two-digit member to apprehend me,” Zorak mused. “They underestimate me. I’m ranked Number Two in the Banished Order.” He tossed the stick that had held his lunch on the ground and cracked his knuckles.

Vrigoth’s brow furrowed in anger. “Enough talking. Let’s do this!”

 He hefted his scimitar and charged. Zorak jumped, somersaulting over the man and landing on the rocks opposite, drawing his sword. The girl spun around and jumped up, knives unsheathed.

 Zorak blocked the first blow, then shifted his grip on the sword, parrying the second jab to his stomach with the hilt of his sword. Then he reversed his hold and thrust downwards. The girl cartwheeled to a side and came up on one knee.

 Meanwhile, the man had also joined the fray, coming up at an angle and striking downwards. Zorak stepped back. He knew a scimitar could pack more force per cubic centimeter than his saber, so blocking was not an option. He slashed to a side, and the man bent forwards, somersaulting under Zorak’s guard.

 Zorak jumped with all his strength just as Virgoth stabbed upwards, a blow that would have gutted him.

 Morgan followed suit, and she and Zorak exchanged blows in the air. Morgan had the lighter therefore quicker weapon, but Zorak had the stronger and longer weapon. However, he was at a disadvantage up close.

 Blocking two diagonal knife strikes with his blade, he used the impact to push himself away and down towards the ground. Morgan angled her body downwards as well and fell, gravity re-asserting itself.

 Zorak hit the ground hard and rolled backwards, landing on his knees in the sand. Then he fell flat as Virgoth’s scimitar ripped the air where his head had been. He somersaulted backwards and on his feet, blocking a frenetic flurry of blows from Morgan, who had hit the ground in the meanwhile.

“You’re not bad,” said Morgan, using the hilt of one of her knives to deflect a strike to her head.

“You’re none too shabby either,” Zorak replied, sidestepping another thrust. He disentangled himself from Morgan and skipped back, breathing heavily. He hated fighting against knife wielders.

 Morgan’s aura flared gold around her, as did Virgoth’s, who was still on the rocks some distance away.

 Zorak grimaced. He couldn’t afford to use his aura in battle again, not so soon. Curse his impatience! He should have waited, fled, instead of rushing into battle.

 All other thought save survival was cut off as an empowered Morgan closed the distance between them in a single bound, slashing downwards with her knives. Zorak blocked with a rapid horizontal movement, bending slightly under the impact. A shock wave flared, creating a steep sandy pit where they stood.

 Zorak jumped backwards and up, mimicked by Morgan. He pivoted and revolved on himself, blocking a series of strikes, then landed on one knee, and, in the same fluid movement, rolled forward as Morgan landed in the place where he had been standing a second earlier.

 Then he dove sideways as a fist of rock smashed into the sand where he had been standing. Zorak landed on one hand and propelled himself sideways again, into shallow water, as a spiked column of earth broke through the sand where he had been standing. He glanced up and saw Virgoth’s aura flaring bright. He leered down at Zorak.

 So, he mused… he was a Master with the talent of earth.

 Zorak jumped up again as another wall of stone erupted from the water under him, and he used it to launch himself at Virgoth, sword outstretched.

 Morgan, who had picked herself up from the ground in the meanwhile, slammed into Zorak with her elbow. They rolled on the ground, trying to struggle up.

They ended up in an uncomfortable lock: Zorak was on the ground, sword arm blocking Morgan’s knives, other arm supporting his sword, snaking under the girl’s stomach and gripping her side. One of his legs was bent awkwardly in order to prevent her from kneeing him. He stared up into her alert blue eyes and realized for the first time she was actually rather cute, in a girlish sort of way. But she was an enemy. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, if it came to that.

“Why are you so bent on taking me to the order?” He asked.

“Oh please,” she panted, sweat glistening on her forehead. It had been a heated battle, even for a Champion. “We all know the Fifteen Champions staged a coup to overthrow the government.”

“Oh please,” Zorak shot back. “We all know the Order attempted to kill us to seize power, then framed us when we escaped”.

 Morgan grinned coyly. “But that’s not what the people believe. Until they find the Scrolls. But you won’t find them. We –”

 With a fleshy ripping noise, a stone spike ripped through Zorak’s chest and through Morgan, cutting off what she was about to say. Both the Champions gasped in pain and shock.

 Morgana coughed and spat blood. It dripped onto Zorak’s face, stark against his pale face.

“What a pretty statue you two make,” Virgoth chuckled, standing above them, pointing his scimitar at Zorak. “Finally, the mighty Zorak, dead.”

 Morgan coughed wetly again, and tried to turn to face Virgoth. “Why?” She whispered.

“That’ll teach you to act cocky. Looks like I’ll be getting a promotion.”

“You’d kill your fellow Order member?!” Zorak exclaimed, seemingly unfazed by the massive spike that protruded from his stomach, stained an ugly red. His aura flickered silver around him. “I knew the Order was corrupted… but this much… UNTHINKABLE!!”  

 His aura flared blindingly, and the spike dissolved into dust. Zorak, eyes silver disks, stood, shaking Morgan aside, the wound zapping shut.

 Virgoth, panicking a little at the furious Champion advancing, backed away, holding his scimitar in a defensive position, diagonally against his chest.

“You. Will. Pay. For. Your. Treachery!” With each word, he struck from a different direction, Virgoth desperately blocking the onslaught. At the final strike, his scimitar broke.

 Zorak kept advancing, sword swaying slightly. His aura came off him like tendrils of thick mist, staining the air and blanketing the smell of the sea. The sky darkened slightly, a token of things to come.

 Virgoth summoned stones and hurled at Zorak, but he sliced them apart with his sword, encased in more of his aura. Virgoth stopped, back to the wall of stone.

 With a frustrated growl, he pushed downwards with his hands, and the whole wall, tons of sharp, mossy stones, fell upon Zorak, burying him under their crushing embrace.

 Nothing happened for a few seconds.

 Then the stone exploded, disintegrating in a myriad of sharp splinters. Zorak surged forward, aura burning the air and sand around him, the heat so intense the air shimmered and sand turned to a glassy liquid. Zorak plunged his sword deep into Virgoth’s heart, and he burst into flames.

 The auric discharge was so great that a nearly solid silver column erupted from Zorak and shot into the sky, storm clouds gathering and concentrating. He bent and splayed his hands, yelling a scream that was lost in the buzzing noise, like a thousand bees, of his aura. His hair lifted up and whipped in an unfelt gale, silvery liquid dripped from his open mouth, and his eyes were silver mirrors into the hellish world of his agony.

 Morgan, crippled, watching from the sand like a discarded doll, knew what was happening. Zorak was reaching his breaking point, where his aura would consume him into less than ashes. Yet she could do nothing. But she had to try… he had stood up for her, now she had to repay the debt.

 She struggled to her elbows, and dragged herself across the sand, cursing as the not-quite-glass fell down and burned her vulnerable skin. She neared Zorak and almost passed out from the intense heat… she gasped for breath, and realized the heat was such that oxygen was consuming itself. How she was still alive she didn’t know… probably because it was phantom heat, a creation of Zorak’s aura as it consumed itself.

 Zorak was almost too far gone to take notice of anything, but he was snapped out of his trance when he felt a soft hand grip his wrist firmly.

 Struggling, as if deep underwater, he looked down at Morgan’s desperate face, staring up at him, eyes pleading.

“Zorak!” She shouted, trying to make herself heard. “You – you have to snap out of it!”

 Zorak tried to say something, but it seemed impossible for him. His lips curled into a faint smile as his flesh began to glow from the inside.

“Please,” Morgan begged, other hand clutching her wound. “Do it for me! You can’t leave me here, dying. You can’t die! You saved my life!” The realization Zorak was about to die and she was powerless to do anything sank in, and she burst into silent tears.  

 Slowly, Zorak’s aura abated, the heat drastically reduced, his eyes blinking back to their stone grey. He sank to his knees, dropping his sword, silver smoke curling from his pores.

 He looked down at Morgan’s smiling face, though her eyes and tight expression betrayed her pain.

“You saved me,” he said, thickly. “You reminded me of my duty I have to you… and to everyone that was wronged. To avenge the unjustly blamed and make things right.”

 Morgan coughed again and tried to struggle upright. “That’s a noble cause,” she said.

“Enough,” Zorak admonished. “You’re hurt. I need to get you to a doctor… damn! If only I had a Defender with me.” Hunkering down next to Morgan, he ripped part of the left sleeve of his jacket, and then tore that into smaller strips. With meticulous care, he did the best he could to bandage the gory wound so as to staunch the little bleeding. Then, satisfied, he picked Morgan’s limp frame up and slung her over his back, her arm thrown over his shoulder, his arm around her waist.

“There might be a doctor in the higher-class section of town,” Morgan advised. Listlessly, she pointed towards the highest part of the city, where Zorak indeed saw the houses were larger and sturdier, with private gardens lining the entrances.

 Silently, Zorak hustled forward, grunting occasionally as he stumbled under Morgan’s weight. He cursed his weakness. If only he were stronger, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt. The rational part of him understood he was exhausted from two consecutive battles with three Champions, and worn from his auric overdose.

 The soft press of sand changed to the tapping noise of cobbles under his feet. He could see there still were very little people around. They looked away quickly when he met their gaze, shuffling into the safety of the ample shadows provided by the increasingly darker sky.

 Zorak accelerated, jogging, bent slightly forwards. He could feel Morgan’s breathing getting shallower and more labored with each passing second.

 Soon the streets became wider, more firmly paved. Ornamental gardens interrupted the grey expanse of stone, and carefully-tended private parks gave the whole area a touch of color. Zorak assumed he had reached the upper class area of the city. If it were up to him, there wouldn’t be such a distinction, however.

 Here people, dressed in fine silks of soft cloth, with jewels and pearls at their necks or gold embroidery thick in their clothes, strolled casually, apparently not having heard – or uncaring – of the commotion.

Zorak strode up to one, a middle-aged man walking a small dog. The man recoiled when he saw Zorak, probably assuming they were beggar wanderers or something like that.

“Where’s the nearest doctor?!” Zorak exclaimed.

 The man backed up, alarm and disgust printed on his face.

 Zorak strode forward. “Where?!” He repeated, menacingly.

 Morgan squeezed slightly. “You don’t have to be so rough,” she muttered in his ear. “I’m okay.” She coughed slightly.

 Zorak waved a hand impatiently. “No you’re not,” he replied, just as quietly. “And you won’t die out on me.” He turned to the man, expression slightly softer. “Please. She’s wounded.”

 The man nodded slightly. Something, even though briefly, seemed to pass between them. He pointed to a road, lined by leafy trees, at the far end of the plaza.  

“The doctor is on the big house at the very end of the path. You can’t miss it,” he said.

“Thank you,” replied Zorak.

“You’d best hurry. Your friend isn’t looking so good,” he added, with a wink.

 Zorak blushed slightly, and heard Morgan give another cough which he could have sworn sounded indignant.

“I saw that,” she said.

“Hush,” insisted Zorak. “I’ll get you to a doctor soon. Just relax”

 He turned and hurried down the street, trying to be as gentle as possible with Morgan slumped on his back.

 The street was a wide one, lined with peach trees on either side, the petals drifting slowly down, creating a thin, perfumed carpet on the firmly-set, even stones. The canopy of leaves created a natural wall against the wind, which made the area unnaturally still.

 Soon the building was in view. It was large, three stories high, tinted beige, with a slanting roof and wide windows, all in glass – expensive.

 Zorak’s strides became longer, determined. For him, this had nothing to do with alliance or enmities. This was a matter of duty. As an Immortal, his emotions were dulled as well as his pallet. He always fought with a smile on his lips, he faced the greatest dangers with casual nonchalance. But seeing Morgan at the point of death, he had felt an emotion he had not felt in a very long time: compassion. He pitied Morgan. Though she was of around his age, she was deluded, caught up in the web of lies the Order fed their underlings. She was much too young to have had part in the Fifteen coup. Hopefully, now that she realized the cruelty of the superior members, she would have a change of heart. He appreciated the fact she had a fighting spirit, and still struggled for conscience.

 Zorak knocked at the doubled-doors, noting an Order seal was emblazoned on the middle. This might pose a problem. He knew, whilst Immortals and Masters took jobs as soldiers or, more often, mercenaries, Defenders were usually healers. However, it was worth the risk. He was answered at the first time by a thin, slightly stooped, man in his thirties wearing a white overcoat and gloves.

 He took one glance at Morgan and stepped aside, a professional demeanor overtook him.

“Come inside,” he said. “Doctor Urzah will take care of your friend.”

 He led them through the huge main hall, lit by chandeliers, where people paced to and fro, in an out the doors that lined both the walls. A series of desks dominated the wall opposite, behind which clerks worked busily. Zorak wondered why a medium-sized town like this needed such a huge edifice.

 Zorak had taken two steps when he was joined by two burly men, both in white overcoats.

“We’ll take the patient,” the one on the left said.

 Zorak began to protest, but the two firmly took Morgan from him and strode after the doctor, as if she was a rag doll.

 They marched her through a wooden door, on which a brass plaque with ‘Doctor Urzah’ hanged.

“Only staff members,” said the doctor, when Zorak tried to follow. “Your friend will be fine. Doctor Urzah is the finest doctor in town.” With that, the door slammed shut, giving Zorak barely a glimpse of a pristine white room lit by candles.

 Zorak flung himself down on one of the couches that rested in the middle of a room, facing the windows. His mind picked up on random details, like the fleur-de-lis pattern on the red rug under him, and the faint web of lines on the white couches, the play of light and shadow. Anything to distract himself from the present situation.

Zorak awoke when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder gently. He opened an eye blearily and his hand darted to his sword hilt. Then he realized he was looking into the man in the white coat that had led him here.

“I’m sorry,” Zorak began. He hadn’t realized he had nodded off during his wait. Then again, he was exhausted. Worry hadn’t contributed either.

 The man waved a dismissive hand. “Understandable,” he said. “It looks like you went through a war. But I wish to inform you that Doctor Urzah wants you to come in. It’s about the patient.”