Yin and Yang: A Fool's Beginning (4 page)

Though he is clearly a competent and trained soldier,
I best him easily.

It happens so fast, the man doesn't have time to
gasp.

In the blink of an eye, he goes from manhandling me,
to lying in the dust.

But there he does not stay.

With a grating snarl, he jumps up. As he does, he
snaps his left hand into a fist.

He has a bangle, just like mine, though his is far
fancier. Embellished with a design of curled flames and dragons, as
his fingers curl, the design comes alive with energy.

Energy erupts from his hand.

He launches towards me, magic spewing from his
glove.

While he's wearing armor that would protect him from
such a blow, one touch from those magical flames, and my skin will
blister and burn.

Or rather, it should.

For I'm stronger than I look. I also have a bangle of
my own.

Just as those blistering hot jets of red and deep
orange surge towards me, I activate my bangle, and send a burst of
my own magic against his.

Mine is stronger, and redirects his blow back against
him.

Not a single magical spark strikes my skin.

It strikes his breastplate instead, and though the
engravings across the metal dance with power, they can't protect
him from the full force of my blow, and he slams into the ground
once more.

I turn.

I intend to head into the hall. Then I see the
soldiers staring at me, the villagers too.

“She's a sorcerer,”
one of the soldiers shouts.

“She has an Arak
band,” another screams.

In the common tongue, those who can manipulate the
power of the ancients, are called sorcerers. Arak is the term they
give to those who came before, and the devices they left
behind.

. . .
.

Castor has always warned me not to show my powers in
public. While there are plenty of other people in this land that
can command Arak devices, including women, it is imperative I stay
safe until my time arrives.

Right now, I’ve blown my cover.

All it took was a single moment of fury.

I can't take it back now.

In a split second, I turn over my shoulder, and I see
the expressions on the faces of the soldiers closest. It's a
stomach wrenching mix of surprise, disdain, and awe.

Sorcerers are valuable. Especially to the army.

I twirl on my foot, my sandal squeaking against the
polished stone of the step. I launch towards the hall.

I don't reach it.

Two soldiers dart towards me, both launching forward
with grunts.

I pirouette, springing off the ground in a graceful
move and spinning in the air, letting both men fall to the ground
below me.

While more often than not I get by on speed and
strength, Castor has always been sure to teach me agility too. Now
I use it.

Just as I sprint past those soldiers, several more
jump before me.

“Come quietly,” they
warn.

I reply by leaning back, bringing my foot into the
air, and slamming it into the ground. As I do, I concentrate. In my
mind, I sing to my bangle. In response, it pushes out, cracking the
flagstones with magic, and sending them flinging towards the
soldiers with the speed of a bird on the wing.

I have barely a second to enjoy my victory before I
see something. From my left comes a jet of green power. Deftly, I
drop to my knees, and roll to the side, dodging it easily.

But as I do, one of the soldiers launches forward,
and grabs my ankle as he rolls onto his stomach.

I stumble, but I don't fall. Instead I wrench myself
free. Fear climbs my back, my power surging with it. As I see more
and more soldiers flood towards my position, I realize how perilous
my situation has become.

I can't even see Castor. I have no idea where they
have taken him.

This is the first battle I have ever fought without
him by my side. In fact, in many ways, it's the first battle I have
ever fought full stop. All those games with Castor, were just that;
he was training me, and never had any intention of hurting me.

But from the wild expressions on the soldiers' faces,
I realize they do not share his compunctions.

I throw myself to the side, just as a jet of magic
shoots past my left shoulder. It captures my loose hair, and I
smell it beginning to singe.

I have no idea what to do, so I keep fighting.

In my head, if I can clear through these soldiers and
get to Castor, that will be all that matters.

I can’t be alone. He is my guardian. Without him,
there will be no one to lead me to the end of days.

Desperation washes through me now. In a flood of
panic, I spin on the spot, catching flashes of the circling
soldiers. From their weapons to their burning gazes to their gold
and black armor.

They are pinning me in, corralling me like a wild
animal.

Shots of green and red and blue energy pass me,
striking the cobblestones and bricks and steps, sending chunks of
rock hailing around in arcs. The pound of each shot blasting into
the ground is a deafening beat.

Then the heavens open up. With a crack of thunder far
off in the mountains, the rain pours down.

It doesn't drizzle to begin with—it sails down in a
flood.

The rain strikes my face and arms, driving down my
back, the water soaking through my thin tunic and pants. The fabric
clings to my skin, and my hair whips around my face, sticking to my
cheeks and forehead as I try to keep all of the soldiers in my
sights at once.

Another soldier flings himself at me, and I dart
back, my sandals slipping on the rain-soaked road.

I have to end this and get away.

But I can't.

I can't.

I may be the Savior, but I can’t take on a whole unit
of soldiers. Perhaps one day, but not this day.

As that realization dawns on me, I make a mistake,
shifting back too swiftly and slipping. I fall to the side, my
sandals shooting out from underneath me.

Then, almost as one, the soldiers pounce.

One of them barrels into me, pinning my head to the
ground with a strong, wet grip.

Just as I try to shove him off, another skids across
the road, shifting water with the speed of his move as he ploughs
into me, grabbing my shoulder and shoving it into the ground.

“Get off me,” I
scream.

Another soldier launches himself forward, grabbing my
legs and locking them together.

Though I have felt fear, I have never experienced the
surge of terror that now engulfs me. It feels like a flood as it
washes through me, shaking every muscle and sending every hair
standing on end.

I struggle.

They pin me harder into the ground.

I can no longer count how many there are; I can only
feel their distinct grips as they grab my arms and head and legs
and back.

The fear burns even brighter within. Building and
building and building.

The rain drives down all around, splashing over the
dirt-covered road and turning to mud. As my face is shoved harder
into the ground, the mud covers my cheeks and eyes, even collecting
at the corners of my tightly-closed lips.

“Let me go,” I
plead.

They shove me down harder.

The fear peaks.

I shake so badly I start to cry. Tears collect down
my cheeks, indistinguishable from the rain.

As my panic becomes so powerful I can barely breathe,
I hear something.

Far, far away. Carried on the wind, borne on the
rain, driven by the crackles of flame—a muttering. Low and
constant, it's dark. Beyond light, in fact, it is Night.

The Night.

The force that will end this age. The very thing I
must fight and defeat as the Savior.

I’ve only ever heard its whispers rarely and never so
loudly. In times of great stress I've become aware of its presence,
but now I feel it all around me. It seeps from the cracks in the
stones by my face, coiling up like trillions of dark-bodied
snakes.

The harder the soldiers push me down, the more I see
the dark. The more it mutters in my ears.

I feel like I'll be dragged down by it. As if the
dark will reach up from the deepest reaches of the earth, and pull
me down into the never-ending Night.

But I won't let it.

I will fight.

Fear, as Castor always taught, can only be conquered
by action. By turning to the dark and throwing oneself right into
its center.

“Get off me,” I
scream one final time. As I do, bright white energy collects along
my lips. I breathe it into the driving rain. With each desperate
word, I speak it right into the shattered cobblestones and ground
below.

I connect to my bangle, to the very force that lies
within.

I give my mind up to the magic.

I push back.

The road underneath breaks and the rain hisses into
steam.

Every soldier is thrown back, and I jump to my
feet.

Power pulls up through my veins, making my flesh
tingle with force.

I breathe.

I'm free.

“Castor,” I call into
the driving rain. I will find him. That's all that matters
now.

I try running forward.

Something snakes out of the darkness. Something fast,
something strong.

It pushes into my back.

I have no time to register what it is before it
starts curling around my ankles and wrists.

“Let me go,” I scream
wildly.

I'm yanked to the side by that mysterious force, my
knees driving into the mud as I'm pushed into the ground. It's only
then I realize what's captured me.

Magic.

Lines of magic have wrapped around my wrists, locking
me in place.

It takes a person with rare control to master moving
magic in that way. Most ordinary sorcerers can only send blasts and
shots of power emanating from their Arak devices.

Yet before me, somewhere out there in the rain, is a
man with enough control to bend magic to his will.

Then I see him.

He comes striding out of the rain, his fingers
stretched and stiff.

“Let me go,” I
scream.

“What the hell is
going on here?” he marches forward.

Though I struggle against my magic shackles, I can't
break them. They move with me, absorbing every gram of strength I
throw at them.

As the man strides forward, the soldiers begin to
pick themselves up.

“What the hell are
you all doing?” the sorcerer demands again.

“Sir, we
. . . she's a sorcerer,” one points out as he wipes the
mud from his face.

“I can see that. But
that's no reason to pin her to the ground. Now get up,” the man
demands.

Every soldier stands and then salutes.

Though the rain is still heavy, pounding into the
ground with the force of mini cannon balls, as the man approaches,
it eases.

Finally I can see him in full.

In fact, he walks right up to me and stares down.

Just like the other soldiers, he's wearing gold, red,
and black armor. But his helmet is much fancier, with golden dragon
wings emblazoned on each side. The magical engravings across his
chest plate are also more detailed, and twinkle in the dim light
that makes it through the storm.

Without a word, he continues to look at me, his eyes
darting across my face, down my wet tunic, and over my bedraggled,
mud-covered hair.

“Let me go,” I plead.
“I haven't done anything wrong.”

The man raises an
eyebrow
. “Apart from attack a garrison of
Her Majesty's Royal Army,” the man points out. Then, surprisingly,
he shifts his hand to the side, and the shackles binding me
shatter.

I fall onto my hands and knees.

I'm free.

My first impulse is to fight. To plough through these
soldiers until I find Castor and get the hell out of here.

But as I raise my
head and push to my feet, that man stares at me, his piercing gaze
travelling right through mine
. “Don't,”
he says. “I've let you go for now, but if you try anything, I will
bind you again.” He speaks with force, and I can feel his natural
power lacing through his words.

I stare back at him,
locking my teeth together and pushing hard into my jaw. I part my
lips a centimeter and hiss
, “what are you
doing here? Where's my uncle? Where's Castor?”

For a moment, he
doesn't say anything. Again his gaze darts over my
face
. “He is being drafted. The Queen
needs him.”

“He's just an old
man,” I say through a locked jaw. “He's of no use to you. Let him
go.”

Once more the man
descends into a lengthy silence before he says
, “I'm afraid I can't do that. His Kingdom needs him. We
are entering uncertain times, and must draw on every resource we
can to secure our freedom.”

“There are plenty of
other soldiers to fight your war,” I point out as I stutter through
a breath.

I'm covered in mud, frozen cold by the rain, and my
body aches from my fight. But I do not wobble, and nor do I fall to
my knees.

I will stand, and I will fight.

If I fall again, the darkness will come crawling up
from the cracks to claim me.

“As I said, we are
entering uncertain times, and must draw on every resource we can,”
he points out calmly.

“He's just an old
man.”

“And you are just a
woman. Hold your tongue and show Captain Yang some respect,” one of
the soldiers snaps.

The sorcerer—Captain
Yang, as I have just learnt—raises one hand swiftly to silence the
soldier
. “Let her speak. She wants to
know what's happening to her uncle.”