FROWNING ATOP A CARRIAGE, a hooded man. He held black reins in his only hand to lead his sole horse. Lonely and sorrowful, he was as per usual. He once had four horses just as he once had two arms. A shame he lost those things and could never reclaim them. But it was a necessary sacrifice he had made to continue serving the Mono.
***
Aran had a monumental problem: he was radically disoriented. Not because the carriage–going down a declivity–shook vigorously as it wobbled over rocks and debris, flinging him about the confined space in which he was entrapped.
But rather, the fact that he'd found out that he was amidst an entirely anachronistic place, amongst anachronistic people, seeing anachronistic things. One of these anachronistic things would be magic.
If Aran were to sum it all up in a single word, he'd say it was all magic. Not that the people called it magic here.
Aran rubbed at his temples. The pain in his head and behind his eyes were like migraines. Pulsing. As the carriage tossed him from wall to wall, his veins became visible. Throbbing.
The nauseating motion was but an impediment that continuously caused his mental fortitude to waver.
'Think goddammit … think,' he thought. 'First that woman in the white cloak stole my erotica, I followed her …. realised that she was a creep and left. When I went running home, the goddamn sky shot a laser at me–only God knows why.' His body crashed into a wall of planks.
'From there,' he thought, 'I woke up with a man's thumb in my mouth. After which, the same lady in the white cloak showed up, killed almost everyone and casually showed herself to me. And now … I'm here.'
He turned half a circle only to see the coachman: the man steering the carriage, holding black reins in a hooded robe.
Aran furrowed his brows. Indubitably, this man was the one who'd confined him.
And so, he figured he'd let the coachman have a morsel of his rage. His lips parted–he was aout to speak when …
A tiny figure zoomed through a gap between the wooden planks. It stopped, hovering before his face. He quickly retracted his head as his eyes shifted focus to the minuscule figure.
He'd recognised it spot on. It was her. Much smaller now–but it was, certainly, her. Chandrelle. Chandrelle hovering before him.
"Silence," she whispered loud enough as to allow him to her voice over the horse's clattering steps. "Daren't let him here you …"
"It's you …" Aran knitted his brows at her, "the witch."
"Shh," she placed a tiny finger upon her lips, "what did I just say?"
He scoffed. "Hearing me or not me doesn't change a thing. I'd still be trapped … in here."
"But should he hear you," she glowered, "our chances of escape would be thwarted."
Aran slammed into a wall. He sighed. "Look, lady … fairy–" he shook his head "--whatever you are. It's been quite the long day for me, okay? I honestly don't how long I've been out but these …. Incidents, it felt like they happened in under an hour. Could you explain what the fuck's going on please?"
"No," Chandrelle said, "not here. Your safety needs to be assured first."
Aran narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips in a fine line. "From an erotica theif, to a witch … what are you now, my mother?"
"Your mentor," she said. "And right now we need to get out of here. I could imagine how baffled you are but trust me … you will soon come to understand. I'll tell you down to what color my undergarments are. But not here.
"You see that man back there? He's a member of the Uni–the regime of single-handed soldiers–and he's taking you to a very horrible … horrible place. So please, just let me help you."
Aran sighed, averting his eyes. He'd had enough of this day. A trifle again and he felt like he'd go insane.
"You better answer my questions and take me back home," the carriage pitched him to the left. "So … how are we gonna escape?"
Hovering, she folded her arms and smirked. "Utilizing what we have in our heads."
***
CHAPTER 2 - NEW WORLD - [Part 4]
Frowning atop a carriage, a hooded man. He held black reins in his only hand to lead his sole horse. Lonely and sorrowful, he was as per usual.
He once had four horses just as he once had two arms. A shame he lost those things and could never reclaim them. But it was a necessary sacrifice he had made to continue serving the Mono.
The farmlands: there he was headed. Things had gone south for him in the last battle. Precisely why he failed to savvy the sense of having his arm chopped off by his master. He usually wielded his sword with his dominant hand—a thing that was lost for nine years now.
He had to train with his right now and it wasn't easy. But again, it was a compulsory sacrifice he had made to get accepted into the Black Empire that is the Mono.
The farmlands near the obscured Temple were the only places in the vast world where he could rest. And so, he would rest there. He would rest there for about a week or two and only thence return to his one true master—the only master of such calibre he could ever hope to meet and swear his allegiance to: the Tertiary Whisperer.
The ones higher in the hierarchy were like the gods you'd get cut down for merely looking at.
He had another master (Secondary Whisperer, Mulak,) in the farmlands too, and this fact always reminded him that he was nothing short of a slave.
He sighed. Two or three weeks. After which, he'd cut himself up, and let the wounds heal and scar on the way back to the Tertiary Whisperer. He hoped injuries would make a good excuse for the small war he had fought four days ago was a catastrophic mess.
So many of his comrades were forever lost. It was so much for him that he'd chosen to retreat like a few others. Though, he had his share of regrets since death seemed the only validated escape. Religion, capital, and survival were the only reasons he had planned to return to his true master instead of hiding on the far ends of the world.
At the end of the day, the masters would find him.
Visiting the farmlands as a servant of the Mono was expensive. They were forced to bring something of assured value upon each visit to Lord Mulak. And this one-handed man, steering his last horse, was taking a prince to his lord.
Just thinking of it made him anxious. He warranted that he'd gain handsomely from his rare find even if he actually gave it to Lord Mulak who was often cheap and hesitant to give to low-borns.
Mulak was only a Secondary Whisperer and as such, he was but a servant to his Tertiary counterpart. Word would inevitably get out and the inferior lord would be forced to relinquish the find to the higher-up, or, cover its cost.
'I should be able to buy my son a gift with the treasures I receive from the lord,' the man thought, smiling. 'Maybe I'll get my wife something t—"
Suddenly, he heard loud screaming from the back. He jumped, quickly tugging on the reins that were attached to his horse. The horse slowed from its trot, raising twice as high in the air, lurching on its hind legs until eventually falling back down to all-fours.
"A driller! A driller!"
The servant quickly looked over his shoulder and saw blood in the carriage. The boy–who he had caught–squirmed about on the wooden flooring of the carriage, screaming in supposed agony.
The servant leaped from his seat faster than he thought he could move after getting shot by an arrow four days ago upon his retreat. He rounded the carriage, halted, and quickly pulled a key out of his pocket.
The boy had seemingly gone unconscious for the servant heard no further cry. The servant furrowed his brows as he inched toward the trap door of the carriage.
Fidgeting, he opened the tiny trap door, shoved his arm through it, and began to pull at the boy's leg. Midway through pulling him out, a rock hit his back hard. He winced, looking over his shoulder.
A minuscule figure–about the size of his swollen, calloused hands–hovered in the distance.
"You again!" He snapped. "Have I not gotten rid o' you earlier?"
He looked ahead again only to receive a foot to his nose. He released Aran's leg and stumbled backward on his feet.
Aran shoved the man aside and rushed for the woods nearby. The man quickly steadied on his feet, and reached for Aran, grasping his tunic.
Suddenly the hovering figure bit the man on his neck. He groaned, releasing Aran. Aran forthwith edged away, furrowing his brows. He had to keep his distance lest he got himself hurt. He dared not judge or even attempt to guess the capabilities of the man. The decoy was a part of the plan but death was not.
The hooded man looked at the minuscule figure that hovered some four meters away from him. He drew his sword, pulling it from its scabbard. It shrieked as the blade slid past the material. Right foot in front of left, he bent his knees slightly, lowered the weapon in his single hand, and directed its point a meter away from the center of his open legs. The Alber position.
"Cutting a little fly wouldn't be easy," he said with apathetic eyes. "But I'm a step beyond any difficulty."
Chandrelle smirked.
Suddenly the minuscule figure gradually grew. She grew such that she was the size of a normal human being—the size Aran had seen her before. She had that white cloak on; not a spot of filth on it. In fact, it was always on her body, but the delicate details and embroidered pieces were much harder to perceive in a shrunken form.
The cloaked woman, eyes faintly aglow, thrust her hands forward. Force surged and rippled through the air. It crashed into the man's body like an invisible hammer, knocking him away.
His body ruptured through a rear wheel of his carriage, wood splinters pitching about. The body slid under the carriage and halted. Finally, the damaged carriage lurched and creaked and crashed upon him.