Mikhail

  He wasn't a stranger to murder and blood, but the aftermath of the fight with the caveshrieker would make even the most hardened soldier turn away in horror.

  Body parts were strewn everywhere, smashed in heads and bisected torsos littered the cavern floor and walls. The creature had ripped the majority of the group of slaves apart with extreme brutality. The smell of excrement and viscera stifled the air and made it nearly impossible to breathe without throwing up. Wails of people in pain filled his ears, and he covered Elka's with his large hands. She trembled.

  This hadn't been a battle, it had been a slaughter. Frehar and Twenty had, to Mikhail's astonishment, managed to kill the caveshrieker together, but in the process Twenty had sustained a nasty cut on his right leg, and Frehar’s left arm was practically unusable.

  They'd been a storm of fiery blades and flashing axes together, more vicious and in sync than Mikhail had ever seen anyone fight, and still they'd been hurt this badly.

  After witnessing them, Mikhail understood why Frehar had asked him to stay back, he would have only gotten in the way.

  Frehar stumbled over corpses, trying to support Twenty as they made their way towards Mikhail and Elka.

  “Fucking monster,” Frehar spat, panting as he reached them. “We have three survivors out of forty-six, and one of them is dying.”

  Mikhail looked around wildly. “What in the hells was that abomination?”

  “I told you, it's a cave-”

  “I know its name, damn you, I'm asking you what it was.”

  Frehar looked at him. “We don't know, but luckily they seem to be confined to these cave systems. Probably something a fucking Weaver made again in some laboratory.”

  “They can make something like that?”

  “You'd be surprised.” Frehar helped Twenty sit down, and sat down next to him. He accidentally leaned on his arm and fell down, moaning in pain. “Gods damn it all!”

  “Take a rest Frehar,” Mikhail said. “That was a hell of a fight, you both earned it.”

  “You're right about that,” He laughed coldly. “Wish we could have saved more, though.”

  “You did what you could, friend.”

  Frehar glared at him. “It wasn't enough.”

  Mikhail said nothing, he understood how he must feel, he failed to keep Nebo safe too, after all.

  “Could you do me a favour, big man?”

  “Of course, what do you need?”

  Frehar closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clutching his arm. “The poor sap who's dying in pain, could you–?”

  Mikhail nodded, he understood what had to be done out of mercy. “Keep Elka with you, I'll put an end to his misery.” He shielded the girls eyes from the horrors he was about to walk into as he handed her over to Frehar.

  Twenty intervened, and pulled her into his massive chest, careful not to let her touch his wounded leg or look in the direction of the carnage. He stroked her hair and hummed a tune.

  Mikhail looked at them. “Thank you, Twenty, she doesn't need to see or hear this.”

  Twenty only nodded.

  Frehar started mumbling something to himself as he closed his eyes, and placed a hand on his chest.

  “What are you-”

  Frehar stopped him by shaking his head.

  “Alright, I'll be right back.”

  Mikhail grabbed one of his two daggers and made his way through the bloody mess, finally arriving at the dying man.

  He knelt down in front of him and looked him over. The man had a gut wound, blood and feces dribbled from the wide gash in his belly. He would die an excruciating death if left alone.

  “What's your name?” Mikhail asked.

  “It-” the man coughed and groaned in pain. “It's Alaryc.”

  “I see.” He gently put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you're aware, but you're dying, and if I leave you like this, you'll die in pain.”

  “I don't want to die, I've–” He coughed again, spitting up blood. “I've only just regained my freedom, damn you!”

  “I'm sorry, friend, at least you won't die in chains.” Mikhail sighed. “Make your peace, now.”

  The man tried to struggle in vain, and pushed Mikhail's hand aside weakly. “No, no I don't—!”

  He put a hand over the man's mouth and quickly stabbed into his heart, ending it instantly. The man sagged, and went completely still. As he saw life leave his eyes, Mikhail stifled the pang of sympathy crawling its way into his mind.

  Those kinds of feelings are of no use to you right now, hide it.

  He closed the man’s eyes and made his way back to the rest. “It's done.”

  “Poor man,” Frehar shook his head. “I'm glad you made it quick, thank you.”

  He looked at Elka gently sobbing into Twenty's chest. Even he felt a bit shaken up, he couldn't imagine what she had to feel like. “Frehar, what were you mumbling about anyway?”

  “Mumbling? Oh, you mean my prayer.”

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  “A prayer? To whom?”

  “Drelastha, the goddess of death. I wanted to make sure these poor souls would be at peace.” He stretched out his hand. “Help me up, we have to get going.”

  He took Frehar's hand and pulled him up a bit harder than he intended. “I wouldn't have pegged you as a man of religion.”

  “Careful, you brute.” He said, rubbing his arm. “I'm not, but it's common sense to pray to Drelastha when people die. Now come on, let's get out of these fucking caverns.”

  “Agreed, should I help Twenty or–?”

  Frehar looked at him and stuck his chin out towards his arm. “What do you think?”

  Mikhail shrugged, and helped Twenty up as well. He offered him his shoulder, and they started making their way towards their destination. “Elka, don't look back, let's go.”

  The girl quickly ran to catch up with them, and the surviving slaves also followed, unsure of what their fates might hold in the future.

  Nebo

  “Again.” Nodryev commanded.

  The dim light of a floating candle lit up the soberly dressed room. A small window allowing Nebo to look outside at the rolling hills surrounding the Weaver's small tower, was beset with iron bars to prevent him from climbing through. Not that he would have tried, anyway, he couldn't fly, and it was quite high up. His bed stood in the corner of the room, and a desk and two chairs adorned the middle. Somehow, it always smelled vaguely of incense.

  “I said again, boy, don't make me repeat myself.”

  "The Emperor declares here and now, for it to echo forever: Any who call themselves Weavers without the Elysian Tower's permission, shall have their eyes gouged and their tongues removed.” Nebo said.

  “No, you fool.” Nodryev quickly weaved a pattern in the air, and another invisible blow struck Nebo in the stomach. “That's the third imperial mandate, I asked you for the fourteenth.”

  Nebo's heart raced in his chest. His mind was jumbled by the stress of having to learn so many different things at the same time, and the threat of execution hanging over his head didn't make things any easier. He missed Mikhail and Elka more every day, and he could hear Mikhail desperate plea ringing in his ears every night before he slept. He clenched his fist, and forced himself to block out unnecessary thoughts.

  “I suggest you answer me now.” Nodryev said, his hand ready to weave the same accursed pattern that Nebo had felt the effects of so often these last few days.

  “The emperor declares–” He paused, straining his mind to remember. "The Emperor declares here and now, for it to echo forever: Any and all that dare weaken the Empire's Golden Might shall feel the Executioner's Golden Axe.”

  Nodryev clapped his hands and flashed a toothy grin. “Very good, boy, it seems you've successfully remembered the twenty imperial mandates.”

  Nebo nodded, still reeling from the blow he received. “Yes, Threadgiver, thank you.”

  “Still,” Nodryev said, stroking his long, gray goatee. “You're awfully unaware of our great empire's history, even if you're a slave.” He took Nebo by his chin and held his gaze. “Tell me, fledgling, are you an Astramori?”

  “I don't know what that is, sir.”

  “An outworlder.”

  Nebo didn't know if he should tell him about his past, but he didn't know enough of the outside world to come up with a believable excuse. He had no choice. “Yes, Threadgiver, I am.”

  Nodryev laughed. “How curious, your kind is rare, child, we don't often have travellers from other worlds.” He stroked his beard again. “What's even more curious is that you're able to use our magic. What was your world like?”

  “Sorry, Threadgiver, I have almost no recollection of the place except that it was extremely cold,” He paused, seeing Katya's face in his mind. “And warm at the same time.”

  The old Weaver paced around the room looking down at the floor. “Very strange, indeed,” He stopped to look at Nebo. “I'd hazard a guess that you're originally from this world, seeing how naturally you take to the Weaving arts.”

  Nebo shrugged. “I really wouldn't know, Threadgiver.”

  “That wouldn't explain your eyes, though.”

  “What about them?”

  “Language, boy.”

  “My apologies, Threadgiver.”

  “Insolent child,” He mumbled. “You have blue eyes, have you seen that on any other person since you came to this world?”

  Nebo thought about it, but every person he could think of either had red, amber, yellow, black, green or brown eyes. He'd never seen anyone with blue eyes before. “No, I haven't.” He said, frowning.

  “Tsk,” Nodryev shook his head in disapproval. “And only now you realize this? There's much to work on in that murky swamp you call a mind I see.” He turned to stare Nebo in the eyes.

  He suddenly felt an intense pressure invade his head. A maelstrom of images and sounds came crashing into his mind, impossible to untangle. Thoughts ran through one another, until he could make out a faint whisper.

  ..trol…

  Co…it

  Control it.

  Nodryev spoke, his words piercing through the chaos like an icy spear of command.

  "I said control it, fledgling, focus."

  But Nebo was getting dizzy, he felt he was about to lose consciousness when it suddenly stopped as soon as it started.

  His legs gave way and he managed to just grab onto the desk next to him. Black spots formed in his vision and it felt like hundreds of needles stabbed the back of his eyes. He blinked his eyes in exasperation.

  “Terrible,” Nodryev said haughtily. “And impressive. Sit, boy.”

  Nebo felt around for the chair, and sat down rubbing his temples.

  “Listen to me,” Nodryev said. “You fail spectacularly at focusing your mind and let yourself be overwhelmed by chaos.”

  “I apologize, Threadgiver.” Nebo said, still rubbing the sides of his head.

  “Hold your tongue and let me finish.” He commanded. “Did you hear me tell you to focus?”

  “I did, Threadgiver, but I couldn't do it.”

  “That's right, and that's what impressed me.”

  Nebo thought about what he said, but couldn't make sense of it. “My apologies, Threadgiver, but why would you be impressed with me for not being able to do something?”

  “Because it was a command you received from an experienced Ocularus like me while maintaining eye contact, yet you somehow managed to resist it.”

  “So I'm too stupid to follow commands?” Nebo said.

  “Do you want me to hurt you again?”

  Nebo sat upright and felt his stomach tighten. “No Threadgiver, I'm sorry.”

  “Fool.” Nodryev turned up his nose at his insolence. “But an interesting fool. It's good you have a resistance to Ocularii, but we'll have to work hard on fixing that chaotic mind of yours before you attend the Tower. Every night, before you go to sleep, you'll come to my laboratory and we'll repeat this training until you can pick and choose which thoughts you'll focus on.”

  Nebo felt a knot form in his stomach. This had been one of the most unpleasant experiences he'd ever had, and he would have to do this each night?

  “Isn't it enough that I can resist commands, Threadgiver?”

  Another slam to his stomach doubled him over, and almost made him throw up.

  “I'll suffer through your bouts of occasional insolence, child.” Nodryev said, stepping forward and moving his face close to Nebo's until their noses nearly touched. “But I will not have you show me true stupidity or a lack of ambition, do I make myself clear?”

  He wanted to run from this man. The old weaver didn't say it explicitly, but he knew he'd cast him aside if he kept this up. It would be the death of him. “Yes, Threadweaver.” He said, his voice trembling.

  “A chaotic mind is a danger to everyone, including yourself. Especially the mind of a Weaver.” He stepped away from Nebo and grabbed a goblet next to a stack of books to inspect it. “How do you intend to weave magic of your own if you can't even untangle the web of chaos that is your own mind?”

  Nebo wrung his hands and bit his lower lip.

  “Ambition, child, a hunger for power is what I saw in you, and a means to gain it as well.” He put the goblet down he had been studying. “But first, you must learn focus and discipline.”

  “Yes, Threadgiver, I'll try my best.”

  “Good, now take this,” he shoved a tome into Nebo's arms. “and study it.”

  Nebo looked at the title; ‘Dunmori of Old: The Six Sages’. “What is this, Threadmaster?”

  “A collection of tales from the beginning of our empire, it's about six different great thinkers and could be said to be the foundation of our culture. It will help strengthen your mind if you let it.”

  He looked at the ornate silver letters on the burgundy book, and wondered what its contents held in store. He was curious, if nothing else, which thoughts could have built an empire as cruel as this.

  “Thank you, I'll read it tonight.”

  “Good, I will rest now. After you've read the first chapters you will come to my laboratory to begin training, is that understood?”

  Nebo swallowed. He really didn't want to go through that again, but he didn't have a choice. “Understood, Threadmaster, I'll be there.”

  “Good, we'll see eachother tonight.” The old Weaver left the room and Nebo behind.

  Nebo went to sit on his bed, and opened the book to start reading. To survive his mental training he'd take any advantage he could get.