Chapter 1 - The Last Messenger

Author Note: As of 11/11/2020 I have paused adding new chapters for this story. This story was an old story that I thought would be easy to revise. It turns out my writing has changed significantly in the last decade and this revision has been taking a significant amount of time. With the birth of BAFK (baby AFK) I have even less time to write and I want to spend that time on the Divine Apostasy series first. I will come back to this story when time permits. I letting you know here so you don't start reading if this pause will upset you. Thank you for understanding.

AFK

Chapter 1 – Aael

Aael hunched his shoulders and pulled his hood further over his face. The stale odor of sweat mingled with the smell of cheap alcohol. He adjusted the cloth strips that covered his fingers and hands but forced himself to stop. Nervous fidgeting might draw the attention of the others in the room, and attention might reveal his skin.

A competitor had died in the Blood Game tournament earlier that night, and death always made everyone excited here in Hylt. The others in line behind Aael had bragged and bantered for the last hour, but he hadn’t uttered a word. He’d come into Hylt with a group from the abbey, and they were probably halfway back home by now. He doubted any of them would miss him, but it irritated him registering for the tournament took so long. Now he’d have to sneak back in alone.

Sand covered the stone floor, and the dim shakers on the wall made it difficult to see the room. Aael peered up enough to see if the young woman in front of him had finished. Pulling a fraction of power from his body, he forced his eyes to dilate until the room brightened. Now he could clearly see the scribe sitting behind the registration table and the contract he held out to the girl.

The girl slid her batons into the leather harness that crisscrossed her chest. She took the paper, strode to the shaker on the wall, and held it at an angle to read it. The girl held the contract upside down, but Aael kept his face blank, avoiding any sign of amusement. The girl’s worn shorts, bare feet, and frayed leather harness betrayed her. It meant she was in this line because she was insane or desperate. Or both. Hylt was full of people like her.

A baton tattoo rested above her belly button. The white ink of the design stood out on her tanned skin. The finger-sized tattoo wasn’t the most beautiful, but it marked her as a level-one master with the baton, and that made her eligible for the Blood Game. The girl couldn’t read, but she had more ink on her body than Aael did.

Refocusing on the scribe, Aael locked eyes with the man. The scribe looked away as the girl returned. The scribe pushed a black pad forward and then pointed to the bottom of the paper. The girl stuck her right thumb on the ink pad and then rolled it along the bottom of the contract. And just like that, she would get to fight in the Blood Game. Well, not the Blood Game yet, but at least she could start competing in the ranks.

The scribe pointed behind him and the girl strode through a doorway. She would get another tattoo now, marking her as a Blood Fighter. It was all Aael wanted.

The scribe motioned Aael forward, and Aael allowed his eyes to constrict. He didn’t want the scribe to think his large pupils were due to drugs. Stepping up to the table, he glanced at the scribe. The man’s black hair was in a ponytail, and he wore brown shorts and sandals. A red sash crossed his bare chest, and half covered the hand-sized scroll tattoo between his breasts. His skin was the light brown of someone who rarely faced the desert sun.

“What’s wrong with you?” the scribe asked.

“Nothing,” Aael said.

“Why are you dressed like a Nachi then?”

Aael looked down at the dingy white cloth that covered every part of his body. It made him look like one of the city’s unclean and diseased. No one wore this much clothing in the desert unless you had to. The heat didn’t affect him, though, and it allowed him to hide his body. Dressed like this, he still attracted less attention than if he went uncovered.

“You can’t fight like that,” the scribe continued.

That wasn’t true. Aael had read every book he could sneak past his parents, and he knew there was nothing in the rules against it. There were very few rules in the Blood Game. But he wasn’t here to argue, so he nodded.

The scribe shrugged. “Name, age, and school? And I need to verify your ink.”

Aael didn’t have any ink. His skin wouldn’t hold it. He had tried explaining that at a different registration office two months ago, and they had thrown him out. He would leave that fact for later.

“Aael Merchett. Sixteen. Abbey of Sorrow,” Aael said.

The scribe leaned back in his chair. “The Sorrow monks are craftsmen, not fighters.”

“I know. My mom teaches me Empty Hand.”

The scribe laughed and continued to stare at him.

“I’m serious,” Aael said.

“Your mommy isn’t a qualifying school, and there is no category for open hand. What are you going to do, slap them?”

Aael started to clench his hands but immediately stopped as his dad’s training took over. He knew better than to show so much emotion. Slapping the scribe would likely decapitate him, and Aael needed the man’s help, not his death. 

“I just want to fight,” Aael said.

“Is that what you tell your mommy?”

Aael thanked the Gods his mother wasn’t here. She would have killed the scribe before the last syllable left his lips. His mother didn’t believe in suppressing emotions. 

Aael raised his left hand, palm up, and placed his right hand across it. “I’m begging you,” Aael said. “Give me an opportunity.”

“Begging suits you. Now get out of my office,” the scribe said and then nodded to someone on Aael’s right.

This had gone worse than last time. Aael stepped forward and placed his hands on the desk. The scribe got up from his chair and took a step backward, as a guard seized Aael’s right shoulder and pulled. Aael leaned forward, and the guard lost his grip.

“Why won’t anyone give me a chance?” Aael asked.

“Grab him,” the scribe said to the guard.

A deep voice responded from behind Aael. “I don’t want to get whatever he has.”

“Do your job!” the scribe yelled.

A large arm circled Aael’s neck and constricted, trying to choke him. He stood up straight, and the guard behind him grunted. A head taller than anyone in the room, Aael imagined the guard behind him was probably on his toes. The pressure against Aael’s neck increased as the guard pulled backward, and it became impossible to breathe.

Aael didn’t move. He could feel the guard struggling behind him, jerking down as he tried to move Aael. The lack of oxygen caused an avalanche of panic in Aael’s brain, but he ignored it. He had plenty of power left, and his body automatically used it to heal the oxygen-starved cells as fast as they died.

Anger ignited inside Aael. He’d tried to be nice and obey the rules, but it had gotten him nowhere, and he was running out of time. Maybe he should just show them. They wouldn’t listen, so he would make them listen. 

The pressure against his throat suddenly disappeared as the guard let go. A moment later, the guard punched Aael in the kidney. The guard’s wrist snapped, the sound loud enough to stop all the talking in the line behind Aael.

It impressed Aael that the guard never whimpered.

“He’s hiding plate,” the scribe shouted.

Aael’s body was much stronger than plate for the same reason it wouldn’t hold any ink. Things here had gotten out of hand. Why couldn’t they just let him fight? Now he’d have to find another registration office and try again.

Turning, Aael strode toward the exit. The guard posted there removed two long daggers, their blades curved like a scythe. Everyone in the line backed away, eager to see Aael get sliced to pieces.

“I wish to leave,” Aael said.

“You should have done that before attacking my buddy,” the guard said.

Aael sighed. “He attacked me. Please, I just want to go.”

The guard sneered. “You’ll go, alright. In pieces.”

Aael concentrated on not killing the man. He slowed his movements and used a fraction of his strength. As the guard lunged at Aael, he stepped to the side, and instead of striking the guard's exposed neck, Aael let him pass.

As Aael reached the door, he heard the dagger as it spun through the air, thrown by the guard he’d just sidestepped. It angered him they wouldn’t just leave him alone, and he almost spun around to catch the blade. Killing everyone here might be easier, as it left no witnesses that might complicate his registration later.

Aael knew his mom would approve, but he could already see the expression on his dad’s face. Worse, if the Abbot found out, Aael wouldn’t be able to deal with the old man’s disappointment.

The blade struck Aael in the back of the neck and bounced off, falling to the sandy floor with a dull thud. He exited the building and turned toward the southern gate. Ten steps later, a terrible pain erupted from his chest. He staggered out of the street and into an alley. The three-story buildings blocked much of the moonlight, but enough light remained to see the arrow sticking out of his chest.

Aael ran a finger over the black fletching that had guided the arrow between his ribs and into his right lung. Only the monks of Sorrow used black feathers. He would die by an arrow he’d helped make.