Erik Otto - Detonation

Should he stay down? How much was enough? He couldn’t know.

Greystone kicked him in the stomach, and Talon reflexively retracted into a ball. Redfern kicked him as well.

The blows hurt, his senses reeled, but something was burning inside him. He could feel a well of energy surging up through him, fueled by adrenaline, fueled by raw emotion. It spoke with its own voice. It screamed at him to stand, to fight back.

“Declawed already, Talon? Show some balls, wimpwater,” Redfern said, laughing.

Greystone kicked him again, but the blow was muted against his retracted legs. Talon would only open his eyes in fleeting blinks. He could see several people around him. They were watching through what was left of the fading light. Redfern was getting what he wanted. All Talon needed to do was stay down.

But he couldn’t. The voice inside him was too strong, the surge too visceral. Possessed, he jumped up from the ground and lashed out. Greystone ducked away, and Talon’s first swipe ended up missing by a large margin.

Redfern said, “still some fight left in—” but Talon had never stopped moving. His limbs flew like a tornado in every direction. One limb hit, then another. He repulsed Greystone backward by a kick to his thigh and struck Redfern in the face, mid-sentence.

Talon finally restrained himself. He stood there, panting, and saw that Greystone was bent over, circling Talon again. Redfern was holding his face.

“Not smart,” was all Redfern said, and he began pacing more cautiously.

There were at least a dozen people watching, but something was strange about them. Despite the late hour, these were not silhouettes in the twilight. In fact, their features were well defined. Something was illuminating them from above, through a clearing in the trees.

They began craning their necks upward and their gaze held. Greystone risked a glance, and even Redfern. They stopped circling him.

Distant yells could be heard. Then a student asked, “What is it?” Her voice held a hint of fear.

Talon looked back and forth between Redfern and Greystone. Whatever it was, they were entranced by it. Behind Redfern, the forest was more visible now, and Talon could make out a faint maroon line. As the light grew, the maroon line resolved into a crouching figure.

It was Nobura, his Shinogi armband reflecting the light coming from above. He had been watching them from a dark cache in the forest. Nobura stood, his attention no longer on Talon. He looked up into the gap in the trees with the rest of them.

Finally, Talon allowed himself to look up.

Directly overhead, a great, glowing ball of fire was lancing through the heavens, heading into the valley. It left a heavy trail of smoke in its wake.

“I think… it’s a satellite,” Ember said, gawking upward in awe. He was walking down the thoroughfare toward the gathering, trailed by some twenty more from the circle. “It looks like… like it could be landing in the valley.”

Talon took the opportunity to move away from Redfern and Greystone. He merged into the crowd of onlookers next to Ember, making it seem like he was trying to get a better vantage point.

Soon enough, the ball of fire was lost under the trees, and the twilight returned, darker than before.

Ember rapidly divorced himself from his trance and barked, “Nobura, come!” He waved to Nobura, urging him to join him.

Ember retreated from the crowd of onlookers with Captain Nobura. The two of them shared harsh whispers.

Questions were exchanged in the crowd around Talon.

“What’s a satellite?”

“Is it a sign?”

Most were transfixed by the trail of smoke that still hung in the sky, or by the conversation Ember was having just out of reach.

The only words Talon could make out from Ember’s conversation were the last ones. “Go with haste!” Ember said. He was patting Nobura on the shoulder.

Nobura jogged to a nearby horse tethered to a tree. He deftly jumped on the steed, kicked the flanks, and galloped off into the night.

The weary cyclists came to a halt at a dilapidated water tower just off the main road. There was an abandoned Old World house there, but it was too run-down to be safe for shelter, so they set up camp nearby, where a small but energetic stream percolated through a sparsely wooded area.

Owen quickly excused himself to wash as soon as they arrived. Given the meager flow coming off the mountain, it looked like a spit bath would have to suffice. He found a small pool and caught a glance of his reflection. His exertions accentuated the cluster of white spots on the right side of his face. They were obstinate relative to his rosy cheeks and wheat-brown hair.

He cupped his hands and drank greedily from the pool before bathing.

“Don’t stink up the water,” Preston smirked at him and joined him for a wash.

“Too late, I’m afraid,” Owen replied wistfully.

From a distance, people often mistook Owen for Preston, even though Preston was a hair taller. Up close, however, Owen’s spots quickly distinguished him. They both definitely stood out on the expedition, however, their physiques gaunt compared to the veteran mules and hunters who rode up the mountain with them. It was the result of too many sedentary days at trade school. Thankfully Preston gave Owen someone to commiserate with on the brutal uphill climb.

It was indeed strange that they were both included in the expedition. Owen and Preston were more likely to be assigned to accounting duties than to be made party to a hunting foray. Their breakneck pace was also unusual. Were all the prize bucks going to disappear after tomorrow?

When they’d finished cleaning themselves they made their way back to find Jakson and Noke eating quietly by their fire pit.

Jakson was a bull of a man, with a full beard and prominent eyebrow ridges. He was known as a great huntsman around Seeville, although in Owen’s experience his most striking attribute seemed to be his penchant for sarcasm. Despite the fact that he was Owen’s cousin, Owen didn’t know much about him. Jakson was often away and tended to keep to himself.

Noke he knew even less about, other than he was one of the strongest mules in Seeville. He was wiry, with chiseled calves and sinuous forearms—a perfect build for riding. His face was clean-shaven and always showed some gradation of stern focus on whatever task lay before him.

Preston and Owen lifted rations from their packs and joined the others, who promptly left to go clean themselves in turn. Preston smelled his armpit and raised his eyebrows at Owen.

Owen sniggered. “Yeah, or more likely they don’t want to fraternize with us trade school lackeys.”

Preston smiled and nodded.

When they had all finished eating and grooming, Noke tended the fire while the others gathered round.

“You guys know why we had to make it up here in such a hurry?” Preston asked.

Noke and Jakson glanced at each other. Jakson said, “looks like we need some more kindling.” His statement conflicted with a large pile of dry sticks laying in reserve at his feet. He pushed up on his knees to stand. When he turned, the shape of him was quickly lost in the gloom.

With an annoyed look, Noke watched Jakson leave. He leaned into the fire with a flint in his hand. The spark lit up his face, once, twice, and on the third time the dried moss at the base of the woodpile caught. They all stared at the fire as it bloomed.

Owen was beginning to think Preston’s question was going to go unanswered, until finally Noke said, “Best hear it from Lord Henneson, kid.”

Jakson returned with additional kindling and they sat in silence. The campsite was well lit now, with three fires going. Owen saw Lord Henneson and the woman from the north talking to a group of mules at another fire.