The Volcano

Hello everyone! I’m glad that you were all patient with waiting a day for the new post. I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent with family down in Farmington. I’m a well-loved aunt.

And congrats to Izzy for figuring out where Rollin Hand is from. He’s a character off of the original TV series Mission: Impossible. He’s a master of disguise. Your prize is another drawing I did, only this time, it has characters from the Child From Loman. Congrats again!

Now, to the story. I didn’t get much revisions done, but I figure everyone has waited long enough. Off to save Bone!
***************
Martin volunteered to help bring up the rear, along with Quentin, Art, and Irvin. As soon as the younger Peck told them about the tunnel, Martin decided that it was high time that he start feeling the land, and not just the emotions around him. Finding a secluded spot as the Ghosts organized the evacuation, he hesitantly reached for a different magic inside him.

It was a particular feeling, one he wasn’t sure he could explain. While emotions he understood, could feel as a second heartbeat, the land was something entirely different. It was almost like a stream, continuous and flowing. That wasn’t to say that it felt even. Some parts of the land, the fort and town he thought, felt detached from the land, a spin off. The farm land felt nourished. The mountain untamed. Even the roads… Those felt worn.

Martin pushed the distractions away. He was searching for the tunnel. Peck said that it was likely to cave-in and Martin was determined to keep that from happening. He had managed to lock doors, win games, and even keep that stable from collapsing on his and Hillard’s heads with his powers. Surely he could keep a tunnel from caving in.

After minutes of concentration, he finally found what he was looking for. It was a pocket of dead space in the stream of land, a long one that lead to an even bigger space up north. Focusing again, he sent his mind along its length, trying to find areas where the land felt weak. There were a few and Martin tried to let his magic flow into the weak spots. It nearly drained him by the time he fixed the bigger problem areas. Some people may have dirt fall on their heads, but no one would find either the roof on their heads or the floor missing beneath them.

It took until evening for the majority of the people to go through the tunnel. There were about thirty men left, standing guard on the wall so the enemy would see them. They were going to wait until after dark so they could light torches for the enemy to watch while they slipped away.

As the townsmen began lighting the torches, Martin joined Art, Irvin, and Quentin at the tunnel entrance. It wasn’t much, just a hole in the ground. The fort’s old cooking stove was over it, concealing the entrance.

“Why did they put it here?” Art asked, jumping down into the hole and stooping down to look down the tunnel.

“I suspect that some paranoid commander put it there,” Martin said, watching as Art briefly disappeared into the tunnel. “It’s not uncommon for old forts to have secret tunnels.”

“You’re very knowledgeable about old forts,” Irvin said suspiciously.

“Of course he is,” Art said, popping up. “He grew up in one. Not to mention he studied Aeternan history.”

“Sirs,” saluted one of the townsmen, the rest of them trying to file into the small kitchen. “Torches are lit and we’re ready to go.”

“Right,” Art said, pulling himself out of the hole. “Single file, go down and through. We’ll blow this end when you’re far enough away.”

The townsmen nodded and started down the hole. Irvin walked over to the stove, checking what was cooking on it. Like Thomas, the bald man liked to make explosives.

“Are you sure this is going to do the trick?” Quentin asked, scrunching his face as he smelled the concoction.

“Of course I am,” Irvin snorted, sounding offended. “It’s an old and true recipe my grandmother gave me. Smear it on the thing you wish to destroy, get a long wick, light, and there you have instant explosion."

“Aren’t they going to hear it?” Martin asked, a bit unimpressed. Thomas had better explosions.

“Doubt it,” Art laughed, jumping down into the hole again. “I’ve seen that stuff at work before. Everything else would be fine. Is it done yet?”

“Yep,” Irvin said, grinning as he took the pot off the stove. “Let’s go.”

Once they were in the tunnel, Quentin used a lever to bring the stove back over the entrance. Irvin began to smear the pasty liquid on the walls as Art started laying out the wick. Martin had to pull Quentin away from the soon to be destroyed section of the tunnel.

Irvin tossed the pot toward the entrance and joined them. Art held up the wick. “Your pleasure?” he asked, holding it out for Irvin. The bald man grinned.

“Of course.” He lit the wick and dropped it. They watched as the flame approached the goop on the walls…

Whoosh!

Martin covered his eyes with his arm as the wall of dust hit them. When it cleared enough to see, he was surprised to see that the tunnel had collapsed with such a quiet sound.

“There,” Irvin said, beaming. “Maybe next time you won’t second guess my old granny’s recipes.”

“You need to meet Thomas,” Martin said, leading the way down the tunnel. “I’m sure the both of you will have a blast.”

“Literally!” Art laughed, slapping his thigh. “What’s happened to our Tommy boy anyway?”

“He’s the Duke of Dawson now,” Martin said offhandedly.

Art stopped, staring. “The Duke of Dawson? When did that happen? Did old Duke Louis go insane and name some unknown runaway as his heir?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Thomas has always been a Dawson. But his older brother was killed and his sister disowned. And after the queen found out about Louis’s drinking habits, she named Thomas as the duke.”

“Dang,” Art said, rubbing his head and looking amazed. “What’s next? You’re the prince?”

Martin didn’t feel obliged to answer that.

They reached the large cavern about an hour after they had left the fort. Martin gazed amazed at the cave. The cave wasn’t like any he had seen before. There were no smooth walls or pillars of minerals. The flickering light of torches revealed black jagged rocks that defined the cave opening, walls, and ceiling. The floor was reddish in color but still had the same sort of jagged look. The townspeople were carefully laying out thick blankets on the ground before settling down.

“Impressive?” Quentin asked proudly, grinning as he looked around the cavern. “Isn’t it?”

“What formed this cave?” Martin asked.

“A volcano.”

Martin paused and turned to the youth, frowning. “A volcano?”

Quentin nodded enthusiastically. “You may not know this, but the reason why we have such great farm land is because of all the volcano activity that happened thousand of years ago. That entire mountain is actually a volcano. At least, that’s what the professors say when they come to survey our lands.”

“Is the volcano still active?” he asked, a bit worried. These people were living in a dangerous place just so they could farm.

“Maybe,” Quentin said, shrugging. “I dunno. Those same professors say that it’s not active and we’re safe.”

Martin didn’t know what to think of that. Tentatively, he felt the magic of the land, searching for what Quentin described. He was shocked to find a hot liquid mass beneath their feet, slow and lethargic. But it was deep within the land. Martin nearly breathed out a sigh of relief. The professors were right. These people were in no immediate danger.

“Ghost Eighty-one!”

Martin groaned. “Excuse me,” he told Quentin and went in search of Dixon. The large Ghost had taken command after Hillard’s accident. He found him and the other Ghosts standing near the cave opening.

“Now that we’re all here,” Dixon said, rolling his eyes as Martin approached. “Down to business. We need to keep watch. I’d rather not trust the townsmen, so all of us will have to take turns during the night. I don’t want to be caught unaware again.”

“What will we do if the Venterans find us?” Clary asked, glancing out to the night.

“We’re just going to have to hope they don’t,” Dixon sighed. “I’m hoping they don’t.”

“Then we shouldn’t let people out of the cave,” Martin said.

“Why?”

Martin shrugged. He knew the emotions of these people. While what he said was true, that most of them would rather die fighting, there was a small number that rather surrender. “Because then there won’t be any tracks for them to find us here.”

“Point,” Art said, grinning. “You were always a smart fellow.”

“Then the smart fellow has first watch,” Dixon snorted. “Ask some townsmen to help if you want. I don’t care. Just don’t let anyone in or out of this cave.”
***************
Martin was jostled out of his sleep. He immediately reached for his arm knives when his eyesight focused on Art’s concerned face.

“What is it?” he asked, carefully sitting up. Once his watch was over, he had traded sleeping places with Clary, the Ghost assigned after him. There must have been a rock in the small of his back because he woke up feeling sore.

“They’ve found us.”

Martin froze. “Found us? How?” He scrambled to his feet.

“We’re not sure yet,” Art said, moving quickly toward the entrance where the other Ghosts were gathered with the mayor. “But they’re coming.”

“I told you!” Peck hissed, shivering. “This was a bad plan. We should have never listened to you Ghosts. We should have surrendered when we had a chance!”

Martin climbed up into the cave opening, a crack in the earth, really. In the soft morning light, he looked down at the large unit forming ranks on the rocks they had been holding all night and begin marching for the cave. The fort had a large hole in the west wall. They knew the townspeople had escaped. He sat down on the edge of the opening, thinking fast. What could they have done differently? They couldn’t fight that force in the fort and their cavern wasn’t any better.

“Surrender?” Irvin asked, sounding horrified. “To them? They’d kill the men and rape the women! Those men are trained in the art of harassment. They wouldn’t leave you alone if you surrendered.”

Aeterna, what am I supposed to do?

“Then you’ve just postponed the inevitable,” Peck snapped. There were tears in his voice. “We’re doomed.”

Aeterna, please. I need help!

“Are there any side tunnels?” Clary asked desperately.

What can I do?

“None,” Peck sobbed. “The tunnel to the fort was man built. There are none others.”

There was no answer from the Spirit. Martin rubbed his eyes, feeling the dirt and grime from the last day on his face. It had said he was the one to help them. He was the control to power. He was the one who had to decide how to use it.

“Maybe this volcano should blow,” he heard Art remark quietly, trying and failing to use humor to defuse the tension. “That way, it’ll be over quickly and it’ll take out that unit out there too.”

“Volcano?” Martin whispered, remembering his conversation with Quentin. It was still active…. He felt that yesterday. Taking a deep breath, he searched again for that pocket of hot liquid. There was something there, however, that he hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just a pocket, there were veins of the same liquid spreading out from the pocket. One of them was close to the surface… near the approaching unit.

“Stevens!” Dixon snapped. “This is no time to give into despair! Now come down here and help us make a plan!”

Martin didn’t listen. He slapped his hands on the rocky ground, quivering as he thought about what he was going to do.

Oh, hiethery. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“It’s alright,” the Spirit finally answered. “We trust you.”

Martin wished the Spirit hadn’t told him that.

“Martin!” Dixon snapped again, marching up toward him. “I gave you an order!”

Martin flung one hand out to stop the large man, the power painfully leaving his fingers. Everyone gasped in surprise as the Ghost stopped in his tracks, feet away from him. He could feel the shock of those who watched.

I can’t think about them, he thought, focusing on that vein of lava.

“Leave me alone,” he whispered, closing his eyes tight. “I need to concentrate.” He pushed everything out of his mind, his thoughts only on that vein. He could feel that hot liquid inside him, struggling to get out of his control.

No! He held onto the power tightly, not letting anything out. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes. The unit below had just left the town’s edge. Now was the best time. He forced the lava up.

The earth groaned under the pressure, shaking the earth and causing rocks to fall. Several people screamed. Martin cut those out as he kept pushing on the lava. Their only chance was to keep those soldiers from coming any closer.

Steam started hissing out from the cracks. Then dust burst into the air, the large plume obscuring the unit from sight. Martin could feel the pressure building in the ground, pressure he forced. It was going to…

BOOM!

Martin was flung back. He wasn’t sure who caught him, but several pairs of hands helped him to his feet. Glancing up to the cave opening, he saw both Dixon and Art gaze down the mountain in amazement. Martin knew what they were staring at. There was a flow of lava running between the harass unit and them. The lava was barely passing the town as it flowed down the mountain.

Art turned back, shocked. “How did you do that?” he asked.

Martin shrugged. He felt exhausted. He had overdone it. His vision was already going black on the edges. “You’d be surprised by what I can do.” He finally gave in to his exhaustion and blacked out.
**********
When Martin woke up again, he was staring at canvas of a tent. He groaned. That wasn’t what he last remembered seeing. Then he remembered what he had done before blacking out and he wanted to groan again. What a mess he had created.

“Alright,” he said, closing his eyes again. “Who has me now?”

“Why should anyone have you?” Art’s voice asked, sounding amused. “I don’t think many would take responsibility for you.”

“Let’s see,” Martin said, starting to relax. If Art was teasing him, then he shouldn’t be in too much danger. “In the last year, every time I’ve been knocked out and came to again, I’ve always been in the hands of the enemy.”

“That’s not a good track record,” Clary chuckled.

“Can’t be helped,” Martin sighed. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes again and sat up. He was on a cot in a tent with other cots. The other Ghosts were sitting on the ground, playing a card game. “So, what happened after I did black out?”

Dixon picked up a card and considered it. “You bought enough time for Chief to arrive with reinforcements. They took care of the Venter unit and everyone moved back into town.” He laid the card down and briefly glanced up. “We’re waiting for news about Hillard.”

Martin felt his stomach drop. In all the excitement he had forgotten about the Ghost coronal. He assumed that not much time had passed since he blew that vein of lava. His uniform was still covered in dust, but someone had been thoughtful enough to clean his face.

“You don’t have to wait any longer.” Everyone turned to see Fred enter their tent. The general looked worn from his hard ride, covered in dirt still. Fred locked eyes with Martin. “So, you’re awake finally.”

Martin shivered. Fred’s tone was tired. Something was seriously wrong if he greeted him like that.

“How bad is the damage?” Martin asked, worried.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” Fred sighed. He shifted on his legs; Martin knew the general would be in great pain since his knee did not like long rides. “The new lava flow missed the town and the majority of the fields, but I now have a mad mayor nipping at my heels and some Venter soldiers that need mending before I can do a prisoner exchange.” Martin flinched. Oh, yes, Fred was not happy.

“But I came here to tell you news about Hillard.” The general sighed again, finally sitting down on one of the cots, rubbing his knee. “The healer couldn’t save his leg.”

“What?” Art breathed, half rising off the ground. “They amputated his leg?”

“I’m afraid so,” Fred answered. “He’ll be waking in a few minutes. I’d like all of you to be there when he does.” He stood back up and herded them to the fort. Martin finally had a chance to look at his handiwork. He flinched as he saw the still cooling lava forming a ridge between the fort and west rocks.

I did that. He shivered. He knew he was powerful… but enough to do that? At that moment, he didn’t want to know what else he could do.

Fred took them to the building where they had been staying. There were several healers running around, moving between rooms. Martin knew instantly that they had converted the old fort into a temporary hospital. The general took them to the most isolated one, set apart from the regular quarters.

A healer walked out of a room, shaking her head. Fred approached the woman. “How is he?” he asked quietly.

“He’s stubborn,” she snorted. “He just woke up and wants to see all of you. I would like you to keep it a short visit, if you don’t mind. He needs his rest.”

“Don’t worry about me!” the coronal bellowed through the open door. “I was ready to retire anyway! This just gives glory to it!”

Fred nodded and then turned to them. “Come on,” he said, looking resigned. “Let’s get this over with.” The team exchanged glances again before following. The coronal sat up in a bed, a sheet covering his legs. Leg, Martin amended. The healers had cut above the knee and the depression where the leg should have been was painfully obvious.

“Oh, don’t look sorry!” Hillard ordered, throwing his hands up as if to brush aside the fact that he was now without a leg. “I told you. I needed to retire.”

“Just not in such a painful way,” Dixon sighed. He glanced around the room and spotted chairs. He dragged the chairs over and set them out to sit on.

“Bah,” Hillard snorted. “The Healers are keeping the pain away. Besides,” he looked at them with his stern eyes. “We have some decisions to make.” The other Ghosts sat down, looking grim. This was a topic none of them wanted to deal with.

“Such as who will lead you,” Fred said, still standing. Martin knew it pained the general to not sit down. Fred probably thought that they needed someone to look up to. “Hillard can no longer be a Ghost.”

“Figured that,” Irvin said bitterly. “Who’s your choice, Hillard? Who’s to lead this team?”

“The decision,” Hillard said slowly, briefly glaring at the general, “has been taken out of my hands. Probably better that way. I couldn’t choose between the four of you anyway.”

“But sir,” Dixon said, sitting up in his chair and fidgeting. “It’s always been tradition…”

“Tradition is not law,” Fred pointed out. “Besides, there is a reason for it. Martin, you’re now promoted to captain and will be leading this team.”

Martin jumped in his chair, staring shocked at the general. “Me?” he asked, shaking. “Why?”

“Yes,” Hillard agreed, eyeing the general suspiciously. “Why? You’ve been very secretive about your spy. I think we deserve some answers.”

“No kidding,” Art added in an eager voice, jabbing his thumb in Martin’s direction. “We know it was him who made the volcano go off. We want to know how.” Martin didn’t answer. How could he answer?

“Martin,” Chief said quietly. He looked up to meet the general’s stern but concerned expression. “They need to know the truth. They deserve it. And you are to lead them, they have a right to know.”

“The truth,” he sighed, looking down. “I’ve had a hard time accepting it myself.”

“Accepting what?” Clary asked, confused.

They’re going to learn it sooner or later, Martin reasoned. However, that did not make it any easier to say it aloud. Taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes to look at everyone. The Ghosts leaned forward, curious about his answer. Chief looked on with a supporting nod.

“I learned my last name,” he admitted, clasping his hands so they wouldn’t shake.

The Ghosts frowned. “I thought your surname was Stevens,” Irvin said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“And what’s that got to do with your powers?” Hillard asked, frowning.

“That’s great!” Art cut in with excitement. He was practically jumping in his seat. “I knew you were going to figure it out sooner or later; you never did let that mystery die. So… What is it?”

Martin glanced at Fred again, looking for reassurance. The general nodded gravely. These men were supposed to know from the start. The only reason why they didn’t was because Fred saw his fear. Now his guardian wouldn’t let him use that excuse any longer.

“It’s…” He took a deep breath. Why wasn’t this getting any easier? “It’s Santer.”

Everything went still. Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the Ghosts stared at him. He knew they were shocked, that they were weary of his answer. He wished they would say something, just to break the unnatural silence.

“San… Santer?” Irvin finally stuttered. “As in…”

“The missing crown prince?” Martin asked, half smiling. “Yes.”

“Hiethery,” Dixon breathed, leaning back in his chair, his eyes wide. The others exchanged surprised looks, too speechless to express their shock.

“I assume you’ve heard the rumors about our missing prince,” Fred said, walking over to stand by Martin and placing a hand on his shoulder. “The discovery of his Connection, proving that he was alive, that his face was magically altered, that his powers were blocked.” He paused, looking down at him. “All true.”

“If it makes any of you feel better,” Martin offered, “I didn’t believe it at first either.” He sighed deeply, bowing his head. “But that’s why I’ve been able to… do things. It’s why I don’t jump when someone comes into a room. It’s why I can often know what the people are thinking. And it’s why I was able to make the volcano go off.” He shivered. “I wasn’t expecting that one.”

“I don’t think any of us were,” Chief pointed out.

“But…” Hillard said, blinking very fast, waving his hands as he tried to give voice to his thoughts. “I thought… I thought that Santers only knew what the people generally felt…”

“Now we’ve gotten to what the rumors haven’t been saying,” Fred said. “It’s called the Renewal Spell. King Bert was actually supposed to bear the burden of receiving it, but those powers terrified him. He chose, instead, to pass the Renewal Spell to his grandchild.”

“Renewal Spell?” Clary asked.

“Basically,” Martin said, “it’s the original spell the Seven Founders cast on the first Santers. It has to be renewed every four hundred years or so.”

“That’s meaning to say,” Fred added to the confused looks the Ghosts still had, “that Martin was born with the same powers as the original Santers.”

This finally shook them out of their shock. Now they exchanged worried glances. There were stories about what the original Santers were able to do. Most Aeternans just brushed it off as exaggerations, tall tales. They were now faced with the truth. Martin was very powerful and very dangerous.

“It’s also the reason why Terk kidnapped me in the first place,” Martin added. “He didn’t think anyone should have that sort of power.” He didn’t voice that he started to believe the Mad General was right. He shivered, remembering the damage outside.

“And that’s why your friend was killed,” Hillard breathed. “He was trying to protect you.” He looked up at Fred. “And that’s why you wanted him here, not at Nacre. You told me you didn’t want him to waste away.” He stared at Martin again, his eyes searching. “Chief was right. Going to Nacre would have destroyed you.”

“Thanks,” Martin said dryly. The truth was the truth, but it did hurt to hear it said.

“So,” Art said softly, his face pale. “This entire time… Martin? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t know,” Martin sighed, trying to make them understand. “My lucky charm was just a glove. It wasn’t a Connection back then, just silly superstition.” He sighed deeply, slumping down in his chair. “But the powers were unlocked. By my order. Since then…” He shook his head. “I told you. I didn’t believe it at first.” He glanced away, ashamed. “I didn’t actually believe it until Luke died trying to save me. That’s also when the queen, Terk, and everyone else who knew me found out. I was actually supposed to go to Nacre a few weeks ago to begin my life as a prince.”

“But I didn’t want him to go to Nacre,” Fred announced, startling them with his powerful tone. “A prince who felt he didn’t deserve the title? It would have been political suicide before he even entered court!”

“That’s where we come in,” Dixon mumbled. “We’re to help him regain his confidence.”

“No,” Fred said, sounding amused. “Actually he’s here to create a reputation as a Ghost. It’s a lot better than telling the public that he was the Spy Alex before we found out the truth.” The general paused. “I also wanted all of you to help him learn to control his powers.”

Martin sat up, looking up at Fred, confused. “What?” he asked.

“You need to learn control, Martin,” Fred said sternly. “And you can’t learn that if you don’t practice.” He turned to the other Ghosts. “I was going to approach all of you to ask your permission for Martin to practice on and with you. I won’t force you to participate if you don’t want. However,” he glared at each of them, “keep in mind that I chose this team for a reason. I do not expect your answer now, just think on it.”

The Ghosts exchanged worried glances, which worried Martin. Ghosts were known for their bravery in the face of danger, known for how they would do what needed to get the job done. But these Ghosts knew they would be facing someone who was extremely powerful and needed to learn to control that power. Martin didn’t blame them for being worried.

“But now you know the truth,” Fred went on. “I know all of you have more questions, but it is getting late and Hillard, Martin, and I still have to discuss his promotion. We will talk again tomorrow about our plans. You four are dismissed.”

The four Ghosts rose and started to leave, saluting to Chief and Hillard, then hesitantly bowing to Martin. The prince flinched.

“You’re going to have to get used to it,” Art laughed, when he noticed. “My, oh, my. You’ve got a lot to get used to.”

“Thanks, Art,” Martin said dryly. “That makes me feel better.”

Art winked. “Anytime, Marty! I’ll hit you with questions tomorrow.” The door closed with the sound of Art laughing.

Martin dropped his head into his hands, groaning softly. Life used to be easy.
*************
So my revision that still needs done is before Martin blows the volcano. I feel like it needs to be more intense…. Anyway, it’s bedtime, I’m tired (in a good way). Next week’s post is the last of the Secret’s Captive. Enjoy the journey!

The Child From Loman, part 2

Um. I know this isn’t what you want to hear but…. I didn’t get many revisions done. Now, before you prepare the burning coals, understand. First, I got a new Apple laptop (I’m ridiculous happy about it!) but I’m still learning to use it (and trying to convert old info into new... Not an easy process!). Second, I took a Community Nutrition test and a Nutritional Biochemistry test. I’d to see you try to memorize thirteen vitamins, their functional name, main functions, deficiency (signs and symptoms), and where it’s found in food in less than two days. So there! No revisions because of school.

However, the next section of the Child From Loman is ready. I think you enjoy this story, so I don’t think anyone minds. To the story!
*********
“Question,” Captain Aaron Gillian asked, joining him at the rail. Jonathan’s attention was on Nacre disappearing in the distance. “Why the sudden whim to go to Loman?”

Jonathan didn’t answer immediately. The night before, he had a disturbing dream. There wasn’t much he remembered of it, just flashes of a child sleeping on a lumpy pallet, covered in ragged blankets, under some unknown bridge. All the king really knew was that when he woke up, he knew he had to get to Loman as fast as possible.

“I’m pulled there for some reason,” he finally answered the ship’s captain. “I don’t know why Aeterna wants me there, but it does.”

Gillian frowned. The sea captain knew a bit about the Santer powers and the strange things that had a tendency to happen. Jonathan’s father, the late King Bret, tried to tell people that his powers were getting stronger, but everyone dismissed the idea. Even his heir. The war was taking away his mind, the king thought solemnly. Very few people knew that, however.

Jonathan’s own power was normal. He knew what his people generally felt, sometimes he could tell when a part of the land was suffering from draught or flood. But there had been times when the magic of Aeterna would impress an idea on him to act.

“Does your wife know about this?” Gillian asked, sitting on the rail and folding his arms. “Because you insisted that you be called Fred Chief on this… trip.”

Jonathan smiled weakly. “No, she doesn’t know. All she knows is that Aeterna has called me to do something.”

Gillian snorted, his opinion of the subtle deceit. But it was the only way of going to Loman without all the fanfare that would come with a visiting monarch. Aeterna may pull him in directions he didn’t want, but that didn’t mean he had to go as its king.

Fred Chief was his other name. His other life. Being the only heir to the throne, his younger self couldn’t stand the pressure without exploding. His solution to the problem was to go into the city not as the heir, but someone else. Just a regular citizen. Jon smiled as he remembered the adventures of his childhood. Very few of his commoner friends actually figured out the truth, but they played with him anyway. Jonathan felt that he was a better king because he knew just how hard it was to be a commoner.

And then he met Abigail. For the first time in his life, his reality was better than his fantasy. It had taken a short time for him to discard Fred Chief and the life that man led. They were eventually married and had their first son.

Then their son was kidnapped.

Jonathan had problems dealing with the death of his only child. It was a stress he didn’t know how to cope with. After the heir’s disappearance, the king returned to the double life that was Fred Chief. Since Sara’s birth, he disappeared less into the other world, but he still kept Fred around.

It made leaving Nacre much easier if no one knew he was leaving. His wife was kind enough to not ask what Aeterna wanted him to do; she just looked annoyed at it. However, she was telling everyone that he had gone visiting an old friend who asked for a last visit.

“Well,” Gillian said, pushing off the rail and straitening his jacket. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Fred. Loman is generally not a place you find great things.”

“No,” he agreed softly, Nacre finally disappearing beyond the horizon. “But something is pulling me there. Loman has something Aeterna wants.”
*****************
Martin woke up sometime in the late morning. He lay on his pallet, staring up at the bridge and wondering what his dream had been about. It was the same man from before, but this time he was dressed in something plainer, and he was aboard a ship…. He shook his head at the vision. The flashes of other people meant nothing to him. All they caused was trouble if he paid too much attention to them.

Groaning, he rolled onto his side, his ribs aching from the beating of the day before. Taking slow and deep breaths, he figured that he didn’t have any broken ribs to worry about. That was always a good sign.

That didn’t mean that it also didn’t hurt. Pain blazed on his sides as he sat up. All that trouble for apples he would never get. Groaning, he rubbed his ribs, trying to will the pain away. Once he was able to move without too much pain, he got out the bread and cheese the woman gave him the night before. He nibbled on it, thinking about what he was going to do that day.

“Anyone home?”

Martin quickly put his bread and cheese away, recognizing the voice right away. “I’m home,” he answered, leaning back against the wall. “Come in.”

The boy who ducked under the sheet and stood inside was the other street urchin who shared that side of the bridge. He was about ten, but he looked older. Terry brushed his long orange hair from his brown eyes. His easy grin was contagious.

“For a bit there I though’ you were gone for good,” Terry laughed, leaning against the support beam. “Ya got back pretty late las’ nigh’. Sammy was scared from the figh’ ya had when ya did git back.”

Martin shrugged, trying to hide the pain of it from his face. “I’m not giving my space up. Tell your little sister sorry.” Terry and Sammy were one of the few surviving siblings among the urchins who lived straight off the streets. The other urchin siblings lived with parents whose only care meant a roof over their heads. They were lucky that Terry was old enough when their mother died to live under the bridge.

“I accept your sorry,” said a soft voice. Craning his neck, Martin could make out the wisp of a girl who tired to hide in Terry’s shadow. She shared her brother’s orange hair, but her wide eyes were a frightened grey. Their dirty faces didn’t match well either; Terry said that they had different fathers.

“Any good pickin’s las’ nigh’?” Terry asked, reaching behind him and patting Sammy’s head.

Martin shook his head. “Unless you want a run in with bad people.”

Terry sighed. “Ain’t tha’ normal. How did tha’ job with the teens go?” Martin grimaced. The boy nodded again. “Told ya they were trouble.”

“Terry,” Sammy whispered, tugging on her brother’s worn shirt. “Ask him.”

Martin frowned. “Ask me what?”

“Well,” Terry said, grinning recklessly. “I was thinkin’ of beggin’ from those monks near the docks. Wanna come with?”

“You can’t be serious,” Martin said, shocked by what Terry wanted to do. “There are slavers near those monks! They’d catch us!”

“Ah, come on,” the kid laughed off. “Tha’s why I’m askin’ ya! Good thin’s usually happen around ya.”

My lucky glove. Even the other street urchins knew that he had a bit more luck than they did. Some resented it and others used it. And none of them knew about the glove, but they all suspected something. It had gotten to the point where Martin was afraid to leave his spot without the glove. No one was going to take his luck away from him.

“Sammy and I didn’ git anythin’ to eat las’ nigh’,” Terry pled. “Pickin’s were slim. I don’ wan’ my sis to starve, Mar’in. Please.”

Martin sighed. Terry was lying through his teeth again; he was better than Martin when it came to finding the best eating spots. However, the pled for his sister always hit the spot that made him want to help.

“Alright,” he grumbled, grabbing a shirt from off the ground. “Just let me get into something better.”

He suspected that Terry would laugh and say something about knowing he would help. Instead, it was Sammy.

“Thanks, Martin,” she said softly, tugging her brother out to give him some privacy. She smiled a bit. “Thanks a lot.” Martin stared at them as they went behind the sheet. Normally, Sammy didn’t say much of anything; she spent much of her time in the place Terry had secured for them. He was one of the few people who knew she actually existed.

Maybe Terry wasn’t lying, Martin wondered. Terry, although governed by the street urchin life, did everything he could for his sister. It was a love rarely known among their kind.

Martin sighed, taking off his old shirt and putting on the new one. If only I can find such a safe place. But he was the orphan, the urchin with no past. There was no such place for him. Stuffing his lucky glove down his shirt again, he left his hovel to go beg food from the monks.
*************
The monks from the nation Poca had made vows to save all lost souls. It was their duty to save the heathens from their path of damnation; especially those already captured by greed. Loman, in their eyes, was the worst place. They believed that its people were quickly killing their own soul. The monks hated Loman.

The feeling was mutual.

There was a reason why the slavers set up shop beside the monastery. Not only did it annoy the monks with their “unholy” practice, but the slavers got something else out of it. The only people who went to the monks for aid were those who were the most desperate. People who had no where, and no one, to return to. Perfect future slaves.

Martin and Terry stood across the street from the monastery and the slave market. Martin eyed the market, noticing the wretched creatures known as slaves and the bulking slavers who broke their will on the backs of the slaves with their whips. His life as a street urchin may be harsh, but it was nothing compared with the slaves of Loman. Captured innocents, prisoners of war, people who couldn’t pay their debts, the forgotten homeless, even the few born into that world. All of them would envy Martin’s life.

“Yur luck’s on ta’day?” Terry asked, also eyeing the slave market. Martin flinched as one of the slavers beat an old man bent with age across his bony back with a stick. The old man’s cries rang through the air.

“I think so,” he answered softly. He didn’t know for sure. He wasn’t nervous coming to the monks, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was those screams that put his nerves off. His nerves sometimes worked like that.

Just in case, he did bring his knife.

Like it’s going to help against the slavers, he thought, trying to focus on the monastery.

“Alright,” Terry said, slapping him on the back. “On the coun’ of three, we’ll break for the monks.” The kid took a deep breath. “One.” Martin crouched, hoping their quick plan worked. “Two.” Terry was shivering. From excitement or nerves, Martin couldn’t tell. “Three!”

They ran out into the street, straight for the monks. If they managed to get through the front gates, they would get food and the monks would smuggle them out later that day. In his years, Martin has only seen a hand full of people ever make it. Terry had done so once.

“There!”

Martin risked looking at the source. He paled as three slavers ran to block their path from the only entrance to the monastery. They weren’t going to make it.

“Terry!” he screamed, grabbing his friend and shoving him away from the slavers. Terry noticed the bulky men with wide eyes.

“Run!” he yelled, taking off away from the slavers. Martin was close behind. Glancing back, he could see the slavers try to give chase.

“Go,” Martin yelled. “They’re after us!”

They ran without looking back. Streets later, Martin finally felt safe again. “Terry,” he breathed, slowing down. “We’ve lost them.” He knew it without looking behind him to see the truth.

Terry let out a shivering breath as he stopped. Bending over, he held himself up by placing his hands on his knees as he tried to get his breath back.

“This is just great,” he grumbled. “How am I gonna feed her now?”

Martin sagged against the closest building. He was surprised to see the tears of frustration in the urchin’s eyes. “Didn’t you get anything last night?”

Terry shook his head. “I was takin’ food home when some teens caugh’ me and took wha’ I had.” He lowered his head. “Sammy hasn’ eaten in two days.”

Martin stared amazed at Terry. There was such love between the two siblings. Something he could only dream of having. He sighed deeply. Why do I feel like I should have someone who should care for me? Silly feelings of an orphan.

“Let’s go home,” Martin said. “I have something I can share.” The bread and cheese could feed the three of them.
*********
Two weeks of sailing had brought them to Loman. Jon found himself on the deck again, watching its approach. That strange nudging from Aeterna was defiantly pulling him to the seaport. He still didn’t understand why.

What is here? he wondered, staring at Loman in an attempt to see what he had to find. What do you want, Aeterna? There was no answer, not that he was expecting one. Aeterna rarely explained itself.

“It’s a good thing I have a legitimate excuse for being here,” Gillian pointed out, taking a moment from bellowing orders at his crew. Jon turned around to see the ship’s captain standing by the helm, overseeing the crew work. “I’d hate to be here without one.”

Jon nodded. Loman’s two powers were greed and money. Without either present, the citizens of the seaport would suspect something foul at work. Their excuse was delivering some supplies to the Aeternan embassy. Ambassador Sealie had asked for some Aeternan goods. It wasn’t an urgent request, just something he wanted. An excellent excuse.

Jon turned back to watch Loman get closer. There was something here. The question was what.
*************
Martin’s stomach was growling again. He woke up, feeling the hunger more keenly than normal. That’s because I didn’t eat last night, he thought, rubbing his noisy stomach. Ever since Terry had told him how he had been having a hard time finding enough food for him and Sammy, Martin tried to help in all the ways he could. The night before had been hard pickings; he lied when he told Sammy that he had already eaten when he gave her the food he found.

Terry, however, saw through the lie, and the gratitude in both their eyes made his hunger worth it.

But it did hurt.

Martin managed to get up and meet Terry outside. His neighbor looked as tired and hungry as he did. Terry flashed one of his weary grins.

“My sis is gonna be a heart breaker when she gits older,” he laughed. “I’m gonna need ta keep something ta beat the boys back.”

Martin chuckled. “You’ll do a great job. What are we doing today?”

Terry shrugged. “Dunno.” His stomach growled loudly. His grin suddenly became forced. “I’m half tempted ta go ta tha’ one place where men play with pretty boys.” Terry shivered and Martin gasped in horror. The horror stories that came out of that place were almost as worse as the slaves.

“We’re not done yet,” Martin said desperately. “Let’s talk with the teens. Maybe they’ll let us work with them.”

Terry snorted. “And git bea’ up with nothin’ ta show for it? Be serious.”

“Then let’s steal something ourselves.”

Terry froze. It was a bold plan. The teen gangs got mad at street urchins who tried to steal themselves. It cut out of their spoils and made the merchants tighten their security. The street urchins who stole often found themselves killed by the gangs for rising above their stations.

“Mar’in,” Terry said, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous. We’d die.”

“I’d rather die then play with men,” Martin growled. “Give me a chance to steal something before you head for that place.” Terry seemed hesitant. “Alright?”

The urchin sighed. “Alrigh’. I’ll give ya tonigh’. If ya’re no’ back by sundown… I’m goin’ ta tha’ place.”

Martin nodded, understanding the terms. Taking off, he was determined to save his friend from that fate.
**********
The teens were talking in one of the alleyways again. Martin stayed in the shadows as he overheard what the gang talked about. They always talked about places they wanted to steal from. Martin’s best chance for not getting beaten to death was by stealing from the places they wouldn’t. There’s a reason why they don’t steal from those places, the reasonable part of his head told him. He shoved the concern aside. He was going to save his friends.

“An Aeternan ship came in this morning,” one of the teens reported.

“Stinking Aeternans,” another snapped, spitting something to the side. “Get the best of everything, they do. Regular shipments from home, entertainment, food they like.”

A teen with missing teeth growled deep in his throat. “And they never share. For all their talk of helping others, they keep a fair share to themselves.”

“Someday I’d like to steal from that embassy.” The teen jumped off his box, bringing his fist up to fight an invisible guard. “Take them out to show them who’s really in charge.”

“Keep dreaming,” their leader snapped, the same one who tricked Martin weeks earlier. “No one has ever gotten into that embassy. They have ways of keeping the likes of us out of it.”

Martin frowned. What sort of ways? Guards? Magic? That last option seemed possible. It was very expensive to use, but the best protection.

What choice do I have? His friends were going to either die of hunger or sell the only thing they had for food. Martin took a deep breath as he left the shadows and back into the sunlit street.

The Aeternan embassy. Aeterna, the land where people could have a better life. Martin wished so much to leave Loman and sail for that promise; some days he physically ached to go there, a pain stronger than his hunger ever was. However, it seemed unlikely an urchin like him would ever get to Aeterna. His only hope was to steal from them to keep surviving the dark pit that was his life.
***********
Jon was alone at the embassy. It was often empty, with Ambassador Sealie off working with the various officials that pretended to govern Loman. Gillian was back at his ship, unloading the goods to be delivered there. He had gone ahead to find that Sealie had already left. The protection magic had let him in because of his Aeternan blood.

The king sighed. Now that he was there, how was he supposed to find what Aeterna wanted him to get?

He wandered around the embassy, wondering what it could be. Could it be an object of power? A lost Aeternan needing his help? Or was Aeterna just curious if he would follow what it suggested? If that was the case, he would be sore annoyed.

His stomach growled again. Jon frowned. The closer he got to Loman, he found himself ravenous. No amount of food could stave it off. He pressed his stomach to keep it from growling again.

No food is going to fill this, he knew. But he still thought nothing wrong with a snack. Decided, he went in search of the kitchen.
**************
The embassy seemed empty. Martin still approached it carefully. Just because he couldn’t see any guards didn’t mean that they weren’t there. As he got closer, he realized that the place was protected by magic. He didn’t know why he knew that. He just did.

Sammy and Terry are starving, he thought, forgetting his own hunger. If I don’t do this, they’re going to get hurt. Trying to calm his jumping nerves, he walked up to the building. Martin stared up the tall building. It was at least four stories high, and nearly as big as three buildings combined. It took up the entire block, though most of the block was more garden than building.

Martin ignored the greenery, focusing on the embassy. The doors were most likely locked, and he figured that if he picked a lock there would be an alarm. He needed to get inside without using a door.

A shoot caught his eye.

Checking his surroundings, he investigated the shoot. It seemed like a garbage shoot, judging by the smell and dirty surface, neither of which bothered him. It was a short distance up, the main floor he guessed. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the trap door and slid into the shoot. Reaching up, he caught hold of the other side.

This is easier than I thought it would be, he wondered as he pulled himself up. Taking more care than before, he slipped into the embassy. He found himself in the kitchen. It was spotless and made him nervous just being inside. He had never been inside such a fine place. A stove and oven that looked used, but clean. Doors painted white that led to different parts of the embassy. Silver pots and pans hung from a rack on the ceiling. And a lot of drawers under gleaming white counters. Martin felt like the only speck of dirt in it.

Find some food, he told himself, shaking the awe out of his head. That was why he was there. The main table in the middle of the kitchen had food already laid out on it.

My lucky glove is working for me, he thought, stuffing his shirt full of food. He kept glancing around as he kept putting food in his shirt, wondering why no one was around. It was getting near noon and most rich people ate at that time. His lucky glove might be working, but anything could go wrong.

Once he filled his shirt, he walked carefully to the garbage shoot, growing excited that he was about to pull off what most couldn’t.

“And what do we have here?”

Martin ran by instinct alone. Anyone talking was a bad sign! He almost reached the shoot when he was picked up by the back of his shirt. The food he had taken spilled out of his shirt and scattered on the floor. I’m doomed!

The person who caught him brought him up and turned him around. Martin wanted to shrink at the face he stared at. It was a strong face with deep blue eyes that seemed to look straight into his soul. For some reason, he knew this man was powerful. He wanted to freeze in fear. NO! he thought, snapping out of his fear. I will not surrender! He struggled to get out of the man’s hold.

“Calm yourself, child,” the deep voiced man huffed, strengthening his hold on his shirt. “I’m not going to harm you.”

Martin glared at the Aeternan stranger. A lot of people told street urchins that before they broke those promises.

“Relax,” said a soft voice, one he sometimes heard. And always trusted. “He won’t harm you.” Martin stopped struggling, but he still glared at the stranger.

The Aeternan frowned. “How did you get in here?”

Martin refused to answer.

“I see,” he chuckled. “The type who won’t talk. Alright, young boy. I bet you’re hungry. Would you like something to eat? I was about to sit down myself. Join me.” Before Martin could protest, the man pulled out a chair from the table and sat him down. The Aeternan then sat on the chair next to him and kept within grabbing distance. He gestured to the food on the table. “Go ahead, eat.”

Martin hesitated before grabbing an apple and biting into it. He kept an eye on the stranger as he picked out a roll and piece of cheese and eating that. The Aeternan also stared back, his deep blue eyes searching him.

“What’s your name?”

“Martin.” The answer was out before he could stop himself. Horrified at himself, he almost didn’t notice the man nod thoughtfully.

“Where you come from, Martin?”

This he didn’t answer. He couldn’t read the name of the streets. And besides, he didn’t want this man to know where he slept. The Aeternan chuckled.

“Back to silence I see. I’ll try a different question. Where are your parents?”

“Dead.” Again, the answer just came out.

The Aeternan sighed. “I’m sorry.” Martin just shrugged. He didn’t remember them, or the fire that he was told that took their lives. All he knew were the streets and its unforgiving order.

“How old are you?”

“Nine, maybe ten.” Why was he answering? Why couldn’t he stop himself?

“You look closer to ten,” the Aeternan said, half smiling. “Why are you here?”

Martin looked down at his lap, refusing to answer that one. How could this Aeternan understand the hunger that came with being a street urchin? Or what they would do to get fed? “You wouldn’t understand,” he spat out, glaring at the Aeternan’s feet. “Nobody cares for us.”
***********
The child Jon caught was not what he expected. Of course he knew Loman had more than its fair share of urchins, but he also knew the life of an urchin in the seaport was harsher than other places. Other urchins he had seen here paled whenever he looked at them. The king knew the power of his gaze sent most noblemen running. But this Martin had looked him in the eye without flinching. He even defied him.

Jon watched as Martin took another bite out of the apple he picked. For some reason, his hunger lessened the more the child ate. Aeterna, he silently asked, is this what you wanted me to get?

Looking at the child now, he recognized him as the same child of his dreams. Now being closer, he could tell details he missed before. A common face, average build, hazel eyes, and long dark brown hair that reached the boy’s slim shoulders. But the look in the boy’s eyes was not the beaten down street urchin. It was the look of determination. What he was determined to do, Jon could only guess, but it was a powerful emotion for one as young as him.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Martin spat out, glaring at his feet. “Nobody cares for us.”

A phrase most urchins would use, but Martin’s tone was more bitter than hopeless. Jon put his roll and cheese down, a bit surprised. Yes, there was fight in the boy.

“Perhaps I don’t,” he admitted, “but I know a lot more than you.” Martin snorted but didn’t reply. This defiant attitude made Jon smile. “Did you know that you shouldn’t have been able to get in here?”

“There’s no guards,” Martin muttered, taking another bite. “It wasn’t hard.”

“But there is magic,” Jonathan answered. “It blocks most people.” What he didn’t tell the boy was that it couldn’t block Aeternans. Martin may not realize it, but he had Aeternan blood. How much was still a mystery, but it was enough for the magic to let him in the embassy.

“Because it let you in,” Jon said instead, “it means that you’re special.”

Martin frowned, finally looking up to glare at him. “Street urchins aren’t special.”

Jon found himself shrugging. “The magic of this place would say differently. It only lets in special people.” An idea suddenly struck him. The boy was probably already living in a curse and dreamed of leaving it. Why not offer the cure?

“I’ll tell you what, Martin,” he said leaning forward. Martin didn’t flinch, just glared. “I’m going to offer you something because you are special. Tomorrow afternoon, I leave for Aeterna and I know the captain personally. I can talk him into taking you aboard.”

Martin snorted. “Liar. No one cares about street urchins.”

“I haven’t finished,” Jon said sternly. “I can provide you a future, Martin. In Aeterna. I can’t force you, but the offer stands. You can either come with me. Or…” He left it hanging. Martin frowned, confused.

“Or what?” he asked.

“Or,” he said idly, leaning back and waving his hand vaguely, “you can stay on the streets, stealing food and wondering if you’re going to survive the day.” He paused, eyeing the uncertain child. What was he uncertain about? He had just offered the boy a chance to leave this pit. “I’ll let you think it through. As I said, my ship leaves tomorrow afternoon. If you want to come with me, you can find me. My name, by the way, is Fred Chief.” The boy didn’t need to know he was talking with the king of Aeterna.

“Take what food you want,” he offered, seeing the still hesitance in Martin’s expression. “I won’t stop you from leaving. Just consider my offer.”

Martin glanced at the food with a hunger Jon couldn’t understand. When was the boy’s last full meal? Suddenly, the boy grabbed a sack full of vegetables and ran out the door without saying another word.

Jon sighed as the door slammed shut. Well, that went well. But now he knew who Aeterna wanted. The question now was why?
**************
Ah! They have met and parted ways. I’ve about another nine pages of this story before I stopped to continue Martin’s adult life. If you want those last nine pages, just let me know.

Oh, and I wasn’t kidding about having a prize last week. Perhaps Les Mes is a bit obscure, though…. I still have a prize, so here’s another chance to get it. As you all know, I got myself a new Apple laptop and I finally figured out what I was going to name it as I was driving to the store to get it. (I find it sad that all my technology is named after guys... My car is Maxx, my jumpdrives are Kelsier and Kaladin, ect). Anyway, my old computer is called Foaly, after a character in the Artemis Fowl series. My new laptop is called Rollin Hand. First person to tell me where that character is from gets the prize.

Thanks for reading and enjoy the journey!

Defending Bone

Hum. Suspicions confirmed. And no, I will not explain.

I suppose some may have caught on to the fact that I’ve been using Idaho town names in my story. I think it’s about high time that Idaho gets some recognition. Besides, I think Idahoans will snicker when they see such towns popping up in the story. Speaking of a story, let’s get hopping to the defense of Bone.
*********
The town of Bone looked abandoned, the empty farm land to the east and south already harvested, making the surrounding land look bare. Martin stood on the southern wall, overlooking the town. Everyone had been evacuated from their homes and moved into the fort. He didn’t need to use his powers to know that everyone was annoyed by the accommodations. They had been packed into the fort and there was barely enough room for everyone. Martin wouldn’t have thought it possible, but either the fort was deceptively large or the town’s population smaller than he thought. Either way, no one was happy.

Coronal Hillard and the other Ghosts were standing not far off, arguing with the town’s mayor. The older man looked to be in his late fifties, his skin tanned and wrinkled from years spent working under the sun. The only indication of his authority was the blue ribbon he wore around his neck with the bronze medal hanging from it. Without it, Mayor Peck would have looked like all the other farmers that inhabited Bone.

“I’m telling you,” Peck was saying, “that the women are worried about their belongings! Couldn’t they at least…”

“No!” Hillard snapped, his face flushing with anger. “For the hundredth time, no! It’s not safe to be out there right now! And besides, we couldn’t fit everything in here.”

“But if it is a harass team,” Peck argued, “then they’re going to go after our things. Those things might not be important to you, Ghost Coronal, but they have meaning to us!”

“They won’t attack your homes,” Dixon tried to assure the man, using a soft tone in contrast with Hillard’s harsh one. “Once they realize that we’re here in the fort, they’ll ignore your homes and try to attack us here.”

“Great,” Peck snorted, throwing his hands up in the air. “Then we’re sitting ducks here! Might as well open the door and let them slaughter us!”

“We only need to defend the fort for two days,” Clary pointed out. “Then reinforcements will be here. We can make it two days.”

“But what if they don’t get here in two days?” Peck asked, folding his arms. “What then?”

“We’ll work with that if that happens,” Hillard said. “But I doubt we’ll have that problem. General Chief has always been true to his word. He won’t fail us.”

“A man only needs to fail once to be remembered as an oath breaker,” the mayor quoted quietly.

“Not Chief,” Hillard insisted. “Now, are we done arguing? Can we get to how to defend this fort?”

“By all means,” Peck sneered. “Where will they be coming from?” The Ghosts balked, exchanging worried glances. They’ve fought against harass teams before and it was nearly impossible to tell from which direction they were coming from.

But then again, they didn’t have Martin with them.

“They’ll be coming from the west,” Martin said distractedly, the distant wrongness he was feeling coming from there and moving closer. “They’ll be using the rocky terrain to cover their approach.”

He glanced to the side, seeing the surprise on the faces of the Ghosts and the mayor. “And how,” Hillard asked slowly, narrowing his eyes, “would you know that?”

“Martin has a sixth sense about these things,” Art said, the only one who was unconcerned about Martin’s statement. “I don’t think people can sneak up on him. He just knows there’s someone around.” There was a small look of uncertainty in Art’s eyes as he looked at him for reassurance. “Right?”

Martin shrugged. “I’ll make a bet with you. They’ll come from the west.”

Hillard finally nodded, accepting Martin’s answer. “We’ll focus our defense on that side. We’ll have others make sure that the Venterans don’t circle around us and attack from a different side. We’ll take shifts watching.”

Martin half listened as the mayor and coronal argued about who would do what shift. His attention was distracted by that wrongness he felt. He hadn’t said anything yet, but the unit that was approaching was large. Probably larger than what they could handle.

What am I going to do? he wondered, glancing briefly to the west, knowing the harass unit would be there by mid morning. He hesitantly sent out a thought; the last he heard from the Spirit was the day of Luke’s funeral.

Aeterna?

“Yes?”

Martin nearly sighed in relief. They were there. “We’re always here,” the Spirit snorted, knowing his thoughts. “Now what is it?”

This town is going to get attacked by a large force, he silently told the Spirit. Any ideas how I’m supposed to help protect them until help arrives?

For a full minute there wasn’t an answer. Martin worried that the Spirit had left when it finally answered softly. “We don’t know. We’re a force, Martin Santer, a magic bound to you. We can do some things by ourselves, but the control has to come from you. We rely on you for help.”

“Great,” Martin softly said, his stomach dropping. It was as Fred said. He was the one who had to control this power. “Then I won’t get any help from you?”

“You have our power. The rest has to come from you.”

Martin didn’t try to reply, his spirit sinking. In his recent experiences with the Spirit of Aeterna, he had come to the conclusion that it was the one that controlled his life, that he was merely an outlet for the power.

Fred was right. I’m the one who has to control the power.

Sighing, he focused on the defenders on the wall. Old men and young boys, all nervous as they held their weapons. One boy, no older than fourteen, was fumbling with his spear. Martin walked over to the boy.

“Here,” he said, placing the boy’s hands on a better position on the spear. “Hold it like this. That’s better for throwing.”

“Throwing?” the boy asked, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I thought we were going to fight the Venterans.”

“We are,” Martin said. “From a safe distance.”

“That’s no fun.”

Martin snorted. “Battle is never fun.”

The boy frowned. “You’ve been through a lot of battles?”

“I’ve been through some,” he admitted with a sigh. “Seen the aftermath of too many others. There is no such thing as a good battle except for one that has never been fought.”

The boy squirmed uncomfortably, trying to keep his hands on the spear where Martin put them. “Is…” he said, croaking. He took a deep breath. “Were you scared your first time…?”

Martin nodded. “Terrified. Never gotten over it.” Shortly after the war had started, Suit had him visit some of the armies, to expose him to the realities of war. While he never flinched when it came to finding himself in danger, the fighting of two armies on the battlefield put his nerves on edge. Martin briefly wondered if that had something to do with his blocked powers. What was going to happen now, with his powers unblocked and these people in danger?

The boy gulped nervously, paling a bit. Martin sighed. Now he made the boy extra nervous. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Quentin Peck, Ghost sir.”

“Peck?” Martin asked, glancing back to where Hillard was still arguing with the mayor. “Related to him?”

“I’m his nephew,” Quentin said, trying to smile. “Not that it means much. He’s harder on his relatives than the rest of the town. Says that we should be the ones to set the example.”

“Could be worse,” Martin said, weakly smiling. “Could be a lot worse.”
***********
Hillard had his Ghosts go around the outer wall, reviving the defenders’ spirits and give some last minute advice to those holding their weapons wrong. The coronal, however, focused his attention on the west, trying to discern the rocky terrain in the soft light of the false dawn. Personally, he wouldn’t have approached Bone from this direction; the north had better cover with the trees there and the approach to the town would be downhill. This… While the large boulders made for good cover, marching on rocks wasn’t the best on foot soldiers or horses. His instincts itched at him, telling him that the harass soldiers would be coming from the north.

But Martin said that they would be coming from the west and Chief had ordered him to listen to anything Martin said.

Why? Hillard thought, glancing to the southern wall where Martin was slowly making his way through the ranks. How could he possibly know where the Venterans are coming from?

Art had said it was a sixth sense. The general hinted that Martin knew things, and that was why he ordered the coronal to listen to the former spy. Hillard snorted softly. He never trusted magic or such things. Logic dictated his life. A sixth sense. Indeed.

Wanting some answers, Hillard joined Martin as the spy came to the western wall, talking with the soldiers there. Martin didn’t even jump as he turned around and found the coronal standing behind him.

“Yes?” he asked, holding his hands behind his back.

“How’d you know they’re coming from the west?” Hillard asked bluntly, not caring if the townsmen heard.

Martin shrugged. “I just do.”

“Does your ‘just do’ know when they’ll attack?” the coronal wanted to know.

“They’ll get here around mid morning.”

Hillard frowned. He hadn’t been expecting such a quick answer or how Martin said it in a matter-of-fact tone. Carefully searching the spy’s common face, he saw something that he wasn’t expecting. The truth.

“You really do know where they’re coming from,” he whispered, not sure why he suddenly believed Martin or what truth he saw.

The Alex sighed, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. “Yes, I know where they are…” He glance briefly at the soldiers then pulled Hillard away to a safe distance so they couldn’t be overheard. “And I also know that their numbers are large. A lot larger than we are be able to fight.”

Hillard frowned. That truth was still there. Martin knew what he was saying and, for some reason, he found himself trusting what the spy was saying. “How do you know this?” he asked quietly. “The real reason?”

Martin grimaced. “It’s the same reason I’m not allowed to spy.”

“That wasn’t a helpful answer.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Martin snorted. “I can’t say. Not yet. Just… trust me.”

Hillard wasn’t the type to trust someone he had only known for a few days, but he found himself trusting this spy. What was probably most disturbing was that he also didn’t care about why he was trusting.

“You’re a dangerous man, Martin Stevens,” he said softly. “And I’m not talking about with weapons. You know that, right?”

The spy nodded reluctantly. “You have no idea how dangerous I am.”
**********
The attack came at midmorning, the arrows rising out from the rocky terrain west. But thanks to Marty’s warning, they were ready for the attack. Art Suit fought with the defenders, holding a shield over his head as the arrows hit them. He grunted as the felt the arrows slam into his shield. A few men were unable to hold their shields up, falling as the arrows shook them. Art wanted to help the fallen, but he had to fight. There were only six experienced fighters in the whole fort and they were needed to fight.

Art lifted his shield up enough to look at the opposing force, quietly cursing that they had come from the west. The rocky terrain made it nearly impossible to make an accurate count. Perhaps that was why they had come from this direction, instead of the better suited north.

“Archers!” Art yelled at his men, a group of ten. “Return fire!”

The men, although not as coordinated as the military, shot their arrows at the attackers with the same accuracy as a military man. Art felt a surge of pride. While they weren’t fighting men, they were Aeternans and had a fighting spirit.

“Fire!” he yelled, as they were hit with another volley from outside. Art peeked again at the enemy and paled.

They were lighting fire arrows.

“Drop your shields!” he ordered, tossing his away. “Duck in cover!” The men were confused but followed his order, following his example.

Thud!

The arrows landed on the walk. “Quick!” Art yelled, grabbing the water bucket nearby. “Put the fires out!” A brief glance up revealed the other defenders also working quickly to put the fire out. The wood in this fort was old and easy to catch fire. He saw Hillard bellowing similar orders, standing over the stables. His father’s former apprentice was standing not far from the coronal, busy trying to work with his men to put the fires out. Suddenly the spy paled, his gaze fixed on the stable.

“Hillard!” Martin cried out. “Watch out!”

Art finally noticed it. A stray arrow had it the stable and it took only a few moments for the entire thing to be engulfed in flames. Hillard cursed loudly and barked orders for his men to clear out. He was running for safety when the walk beneath him gave out and he dropped into the stable.

“NO!” Art screamed. He wasn’t the only one, his fellow Ghosts also screamed. Art started forward to try to rescue their coronal when someone beat him to it.

Martin was the closest. The spy ran down the nearest steps and ran for the stable, pushing terrified townspeople out of his way. Art watched horrified as Martin ran into the burning stable.

Art jumped to his feet and hurried down. The other Ghosts made their way to the stable. This time the people made way for them, though they were crowded around the stable. Art almost didn’t notice that the enemy had stopped firing.

Smoke was bellowing out of the stable, the flames licking up the sides. No one tired to follow after the spy or coronal. The building looked about ready to collapse. The two people inside were on their own.

“Come on, Marty,” Art whispered. “I know you can do this… Get Hillard out of there.”

The crowd went silent as they watched the stable burn up, each moment their spirits sinking. What if both of them were trapped?

“There!” Art yelled, pointing into the stable. “They’re coming out!”

Art could barely make out Martin as the spy dragged something behind him. The Ghosts were there to help him drag the coronal out from the flames. The spy coughed as he finally got out. He was covered in ash, his new uniform probably ruined and his face dirty. But Art wasn’t paying attention to the spy. No, it was the coronal that everyone was staring at.

Hillard was unconscious, which was probably a mercy, considering how he looked. He too was covered in ash, but he was also covered in blood. His right leg was broken, the bone jetting out from his torn uniform.

“Oh heithery,” Irvin breathed, turning away holding his mouth.

“That’s how I found him,” Martin coughed, accepting a water jug from Clary. “He was out.”

“This needs treatment,” Dixon said, kneeling down next to their fallen coronal, looking green as he carefully examined the wound. “At least bind it or something. Where’s a healer?”

“We don’t have one,” Mayor Peck said, pale beneath his tan. “At least none who can treat…” He shivered. “That.”

“Get him here anyway!” Art snapped, pointing at Hillard. “We should bind it! Get going!” The mayor jumped at being snapped at, but quickly disappeared into the crowd to find the healer.

Martin took a long drink from the jug, glancing briefly at the still burning stable. “How’s the rest of the fort?” he asked.

“We put out any fires,” Irvin said, his back still turned from them. He looked around the rest of the fort. “Why did they stop firing?”

Art was wondering that himself. Knowing that he could do nothing for his commander, he decided to check on the situation to the west. He started up the stairs again when the wood creaked behind him. Turning his head, he saw Martin following after him.

“I can check this,” Art said softly, concerned about young Marty. Although Art knew that Martin was the Alex now, he couldn’t forget that sorry looking orphan years before and how he struggled to find acceptance.

“I know,” Martin sighed, climbing up past him. “But I want to check this out too.” Art frowned as he followed. Why did the Alex look worried?

When they reached the top, Art was a bit confused why the defenders had such long faces until he too looked out to the west. He froze, shocked by the sight that was laid out before them. It wasn’t just a unit out there. It was nearly an army. They stood on the rocks. Art suddenly understood why they came from the west; to disguise their true numbers. But now they didn’t bother hiding it.

“Heithery, what are they doing here?” he breathed, feeling the blood drain from his face. No one answered his question.

Martin turned to one of the defenders. “Have they said anything yet?” he asked the quivering elder.

“No,” the man whimpered. “They showed up after the stable went up in flames.”

At that moment, a lone rider approached the fort, stopping just short of spear range.

“Greetings, citizens of Bone,” the man said, his voice magically amplified so everyone in the fort could hear him. “As you might have guessed, fighting us would be useless. We will accept your unconditional surrender by sunrise tomorrow. We will wait until that time and will not attack. If you do not surrender at sunrise, we will level your fort and town. Good day.” The man turned his horse around and slowly rode back, as if mocking them.

“Annoy git!” Art swore, grabbing the bow and arrow out of stunned townsman’s quaking hands. He pulled the bow as far as he could, sighting down the arrow to the retreating messenger, then to the man’s hat….

Twang!

The arrow flew straight and hit the man’s hat off his head. Even from the distance, they heard the man yelp and kick his horse into a canter. He turned back to them.

“We will accept your surrender at sunrise!”

Art picked up another arrow.

“No,” Martin said sternly, taking the bow from him. “Don’t waste arrows on messengers. Besides,” he glanced at the defenders, “we have other problems to deal with. Let’s go down to the others and talk about what our plan of attack is.”

Art blinked. Since when did Martin learn that commanding tone? But the spy was right. They had other problems to deal with. Martin handed the townsman back his bow and they walked back down to where the Ghosts were still surrounding Hillard. Mayor Peck was also with them, watching grimly as their town’s healer tried to bind the Ghost coronal’s leg.

“Did you hear that?” Art asked, jerking his head west.

“We did,” Dixon said, nodding. “These people are spooked. Do you think they’ll carry out their threat?”

“They’re a lot bigger than we first thought,” Art said, flinching. The mayor grew red in the face, rounding on Dixon. “I don’t think we can hold them off.”

“See?” he yelled, pointing to the west. “They’re going to kill us all! You’ve doomed us to death!”

“No,” Dixon tried to say, but the mayor punched the large Ghost in the nose. Dixon stumbled back, swearing as he held his nose.

“We should surrender,” Peck snapped, stomping toward the gate. “Being a prisoner is better than death!” Art went to stop the angry mayor when Martin stepped into the man’s path.

“Step aside, Ghost,” Peck said, already bringing his fist back.

It was over in a blink of an eye. Martin dodged the fist, stepped behind the mayor, and held the man in a head lock. The older man was no match for the stronger young man.

“Now listen,” Martin snapped, holding the mayor down. “Your people don’t want to surrender. If they’re going to die, they want to go out fighting!”

Peck snorted, struggling to free himself. “How would you know what these people want?”

Martin’s expression darkened. “You’d be surprised by what I know. They’ve given us until sunrise tomorrow. We can make a plan by that time to last the last twelve hours for the reinforcements to come.” He finally let go of the mayor, shoving him away from the gate.

“Fine,” Peck grumbled, rubbing his neck. “What can we do?”

Art coughed, shifting a bit uneasily. “I hate to be the carrier of bad news, but… Marty, you saw their numbers! How can we possibly fight that number?”

“The only way,” Irvin pointed out. “Outmaneuver them.”

“And how do we do that?” Peck asked, glaring at the Ghosts. “We’re trapped here like mice in a closed box. They’ll notice if anyone tries to leave this fort.”

Art was about to argue when he noticed that Martin was looking toward the crowd. He walked away from the argument and pulled a young boy, fourteen years at most, out of the crowd.

“Quentin,” the Alex said, pulling the kid to their circle. “I believe you know a way out.”

Art exchanged confused glances with his fellow Ghosts. How would Martin know such things? The boy looked nervously at each of them, flinching as he met the mayor’s eyes.

“No, Quentin,” Peck snapped. “That’s forbidden for a reason.”

“But, Uncle!”

“No buts!” the mayor snapped. “It’s forbidden!”

“What’s forbidden?” Clary asked, keenly interested about the information.

“It’s a tunnel,” Quentin started to say when Peck pinched the boy’s ear.

“No,” he snapped, trying to drag his nephew away by the ear. “You will not…” Martin yanked the mayor away, stepping between him and his nephew.

“He’ll talk,” Martin growled, glaring at the mayor. “Don’t interfere.” Art stared as Peck quailed under Martin’s stern gaze. He had heard that Martin had a gaze that even made his father shiver, but this was the first he had ever seen it. He took a step back, suddenly understanding why.

“Go on,” Martin said, switching his attention and smiling encouragingly at the boy. Quentin gulped.

“There’s an old tunnel that leads out of this fort,” he said, pointing to the building. “It hasn’t been used in years because of the danger of cave-ins, but I’ve been in it. It’s old and full of bugs, but it can be used.”

Dixon turned to the mayor, glaring as he held his nose. “Why didn’t you mention this tunnel before?”

“Because it’s condemned!” Peck growled. “It’s a hazard! People have been known to die in that cave!”

“They won’t die today,” Martin said, a bit grim in the mouth. “Where does the tunnel lead?”

“A cavern up north of Bone,” Quentin answered. “It’s really large. I bet everyone can fit in it.”

“That’s what we’ll do,” Dixon said before the mayor could protest. “We’ll move everyone up there and collapse the tunnel behind us. When the enemy arrives at dawn, they’ll find this fort empty and spend the rest of the time trying to find us. By that time, Chief should arrive with reinforcements.”

“And if they find us before then?” Peck asked, scowling. “They find us in the cave before your general shows up? What will we do?”

“We’ll think of something,” Dixon sighed, already turning away, pulling Irvin with him. “Right now, we need to plan the evacuation.”
***********
Hum. I need to work on that battle a bit… I would have revised it, but I had a downright horrible week last week, which then bled into this week. I wasn’t much in the mood to write or revise. And believe me, I would have written crappy things if I wrote in the mood I was in. Thankfully the last week’s post and this one don’t need any immediate revisions. The recovery I was hoping from March isn’t coming. Grumble.

But no one wants to read about my “lonely soul/ We strive towards a larger goal/ Our little lives don’t count at all!” (the first person who gets that reference gets a prize). Hopefully this next week I’ll get my motivation back and start revising again, especially what’s coming next. I was a bit rushed and revising needs done. A hint. It involves a volcano.

Until next week, enjoy the journey!

Ghosts

The small mountain town of Bone reminded Martin of nearly every back country village he had ever visited. There was one large building surrounded by smaller homes. The large building was some sort of public building, an inn or old fort. The only difference in Bone, the old fort, an over glorified outpost in Martin’s opinion, was on the outer edge of town. The rest of the houses surrounded the fort’s east and south sides, each street straight despite that it was built on the side of a mountain.

Fred rode ahead of him, nodding to the people who hailed him. The Ghost General had changed into his uniform before they approached the town and they rode through the streets without being stopped. Apparently there was a Ghost unit in this town and the people were glad for their presence.

“Who’s assigned here and why?” Martin asked as they approached the old fort.

“I have Ghost units scattered among the smaller towns,” Fred explained, tossing a coin to the boy who opened the gate for them. “Not all battles are fought by armies, Martin. These people have been suffering from war. The price rises of goods, young men enlisted into the army, and Terk has been sending harass teams to torture these good people. I have my Ghosts protecting these people and also teach them a bit about defense.”

Martin nodded slowly, dismounting. “And that’s why there are so many exaggerated stories about the Ghosts and their talents.” Small towns were notorious for embellishing the truth.

“Can’t be helped,” Fred sighed, dismounting and giving the reigns over to another boy. “I’m not going to let people suffer.”

Martin reluctantly handed over Rowan’s reigns to the same boy and followed Fred. The old fort was just like others he had seen. There was one long building inside the outer wall, a combination of barracks and offices. The stable near the gate looked like it was added after the fort was originally built; the wood didn’t have the same weathered grey color as the building. The outer wall was made of stone and mortar with a walk running all along the top.

But what was out of place were the rows of old men and young boys standing in the center of the courtyard. There couldn’t have been more than thirty men lined up as they tried to master a spearman’s stance. The only ones who looked like they knew what they were doing were five tall, muscular men in Ghost uniforms.

“Who did you say was assigned here?” Martin asked, walking up to Fred. The Ghost General frowned as he considered the lesson the Ghosts were teaching.

“I didn’t say,” Fred answered. “It’s Coronal Hillard.”

Martin blinked in surprise and turned again to look at the Ghosts. He had heard of Coronal Hillard, Ghost Fifty-Six, though had never met the man. He was one of the more celebrated Ghosts. He was easy to pick out, since he was the only Ghost without a coat and his sleeves rolled up, the coronal insignia on his shoulders. The rumors of his fierce appearance were not exaggerated. His face was badly scarred and stretched into his hairline. Martin also noticed that he was not ashamed to show off similar scars on his muscular arms.

This man, Martin thought, doesn’t care if people stare at him. The prince was almost envious.

“Hillard!” Chief bellowed.

The coronal finally noticed them. Turning back to the man he was working with, he whispered something to the old man, then strutted over to them and saluted to Fred.

“General,” Hillard said, his voice as rough as his appearance. “An honor.”

Fred nodded to the lesson. “How are the townspeople?”

Hillard groaned, rolling his eyes. “Give me a proper fighting unit and I might be able to do something to protect Bone, sir. I’ve got dregs here.”

“I’m afraid that’s what you’re stuck with,” Fred said. “How is everything here?”

“Nothing exciting to report,” Hillard grumbled. “And I mean nothing exciting. No thefts, no affairs, no nothing. The most exciting thing about this town is the newborn about a month back and that the weather has been overcast for the last couple weeks.” Martin fought the urge to squirm. Had he really affected the entire weather of Aeterna?

“Well,” Fred said, fighting a smirk, “I think I’ve got something to give you a bit of excitement.” The general turned to Martin, patting his shoulder. “I’d like you to meet your new recruit.”

Hillard stared at him. Martin stood at a military stance, ignoring the disappointed glare the coronal gave him. Nothing new. He was used to people always looking down on him.

“This slight creature?” Hillard snorted. “You’re expecting me to train this? Sir, with all due respect, but I already have a team…”

“Hear me out,” Fred said sharply. “I want you to reserve your judgments about this man. He’s proven others wrong before.”

“But sir!” Hillard protested.

“Hillard,” Fred warned, “give him a chance.”

The coronal grumbled for a moment before turning sharply on his heel and faced his men. “Fine,” he snapped, “but he is going to have to pass my test. Dixon, Clary, Irvin, Suit! Gear up! We’re going to test this man’s skills!” The four other Ghosts quickly shooed the townsmen away, clearing an area in the center of the courtyard.

“Suit?” Martin muttered to himself. Taking a good look at the team, he realized he recognized one. “Fred,” he muttered quietly, “do you really think it wise I am on the same team with Suit’s son? I mean… What if Art tells his old man where I am?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Fred replied. “Doug and Art haven’t been on talking terms since Art joined the Ghosts.”

Martin nodded. He remembered that day. Three years ago, shortly after the war began, Art Suit got into a disagreement with the Spy Master. Harsh words and threats were exchanged for the better part of an hour before Art finally stomped away and left the Tree. Martin had never seen the Spy Master so angry.

“You there,” Hillard said, spinning around and pointing at him. “Come here.” Martin walked over. The four other Ghosts, all large men who tried to match Hillard’s muscle mass, stood at attention, staffs in their hands.

“Here,” Hillard snapped, handing him a similar staff. “Let’s see what sort of skills you have. My Ghosts will attack you. Your job is try and not get bruised until I say the fight is done, understood?”

Martin blinked, disappointed. Surely he wasn’t serious? Not to get bruised? Martin knew his skills; he could probably beat these men to a pulp. But the coronal didn’t know that. Sighing, he nodded.

“Good,” Hillard sneered. He stepped away, joining the circling crowd. “Let’s see what this runt can do. Men! Attack!”

The four men didn’t run at him. Martin was expecting that. A Ghost was taught to analyze their opponent before attacking. They slowly circled around him, Martin was careful to keep all of them within his sight, noting how each one lowered their center of balance, gripping their staves. One of them was holding his too tightly, a sign of someone who didn’t feel comfortable with the weapon.

“Fine then,” Martin muttered, knowing he only had moments before they did attacked. Before they could move against him, Martin spun on the man who was uncomfortable, smacking the spear out of his hand then spinning his spear around to hit the man on the side of his head. The man went down without a sound.

The others were shocked for a moment before moving against him. Martin lowered his center of gravity, holding his spear out and ready. They were probably expecting an inexperienced fighter and were ordered to just bruise him. Seeing their comrade taken down shortly had them out for revenge.

“Come on,” Martin whispered, eyeing his next target. “I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
************
Irvin went down first. Hillard flinched as the “slight creature” then attacked the other three men, matching and exceeding his Ghosts in combat.

“Well?” Chief asked, beaming proudly as the young man took down Art with a blow to the knee. The poor Ghost limped to the sidelines, rubbing his knee. There would be an ugly bruise there, guaranteed. “He’s better than you expected.” That wasn’t a question. Hillard glared at the Ghost General. Obviously the general knew about the young man’s skill.

“Where’d you find him?” Hillard grumbled, flinching as Clary barely dodged a blow to his ribs. The young man didn’t even seem bothered by it, quickly giving Clary a hit in the stomach, sending the Ghost rolling on the ground.

“Originally at Loman,” the general answered, watching as the young man and Dixon were left fighting. “But that was about nine and a half years ago.”

Hillard paused. The young man didn’t look any more than twenty, likely younger, but the general had known him for almost ten years? He stared intently at the young man, trying to place that common face. The Ghost General sometimes had a shadow with him, a young child he had rescued…

“A spy?” Hillard asked, vaguely remembering Chief boasting about the child he rescued and what the child had accomplished. “You want to put a spy on my team? Why?”

Chief’s expression suddenly froze, concealing whatever thought he just had. “It’s not to be discussed at this time,” he finally answered, rubbing his bearded chin. “Now is not the time or place. Let’s just say that something happened that resulted in his immediate removal from the spying network.”

“Big words for getting fired,” the coronal muttered. “Why was he fired?”

“That goes under what cannot be discussed,” Chief said, shaking his head. “I didn’t want him to waste away. His removal was just insult to injury.”

“May I ask what his injury was?” the coronal asked, not really expecting an answer. The general was very good at giving answers that weren’t very satisfying.

“His best friend was killed,” Chief sighed. “And he could have stopped his friend from being murdered. Even now, he blames himself for Luke’s death. His mind needs to be taken off those thoughts. It wasn’t his fault.”

At that moment, Art Suit walked up to them, rubbing his aching knee. Art could have easily passed as his father’s twin if it wasn’t for the fact that, in order to rebel, Art had let his hair grow all the way to his shoulders and didn’t sport a mustache. “That guy sure is kicking our butts. Hey, Chief, where did you get someone like that?”

Chief raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Master Art, surely you recognized him. After all, your father chose to personally train him to be the next Alex.”

Art frowned slightly before it dawned on him. Turning just in time to see Dixon barely managing to roll out of the way from the spy’s attack, the younger Suit finally recognized the young man. “I guess that is Marty.” He watched a moment longer before laughing. “I assume he’s the Alex now? I heard whispers of a new Alex.”

The Alex, huh? Hillard mused. Of course he knew of the spying title and the supposedly amazing spies that were allowed to use it, but he never knew any of them. Apparently rumors of their fighting skills were based off truth. And if the other rumors were to be held to the same light, this “Marty” was the best spy in Aeterna, if not the world.

So then, why, Hillard wondered, was the greatest spy we have removed from active use? What could have happened that caused our best spy to stop spying? Glancing to Chief, he knew he wasn’t going to get the answer to his question. Chief’s expression was hard. Whatever had happened also affected the General of the Ghosts as well.

The fight between the Alex and Dixon seemed to be getting close to an end. Dixon finally managed to knock the spear out of the spy’s hands, sending it flying across the courtyard, causing several men to jump away from its path.

“There,” Hillard snorted, satisfied that one of his men had finally managed to defeat the spy. “The fight’s…”

“Wait,” Chief said, a mischievous glint in his eye. He smirked as the spy rolled under Dixon’s spear and tackled the large man to the ground, pinning him so he couldn’t get up. Hillard felt his jaw drop. How…?

“Martin is more dangerous without a weapon,” Chief chuckled. “He’s one of the best fist fighters I know.”

Hillard could only stare as the spy let the large Ghost up, shaking hands with Dixon. The Ghost looked as surprised as the others, pointing to where he got tackled down, asking the Alex how he managed to get him there. The coronal shook his head, getting his wits back under his control.

Well, Hillard thought, stepping into the informal ring and approaching the young spy, if he’s really the Alex, I want to see if those rumors are all true. Dixon walked off and left the spy alone in the ring. The young man stood at a military stance as he approached.

“Well fought, young man,” he said, impressed by the young man’s show of respect. “Art was telling us that you’re a spy. Marty? Is it?”

“I prefer being called Martin,” he said, his deep voice quite bland.

“Martin, then,” Hillard corrected. “As a spy, you are great at close combat. I was also told you are the Spy Alex, the best spy in Aeterna, so I’m sure you’re a great stagiest. And your skills could be endless. But what truly qualifies you to be on my team?”

Martin thought of it for a moment; carefully, Hillard was sure, analyzing him and the question. “To beat you in combat, sir,” Martin finally said. The coronal smiled.

“Good answer.” Hillard whistled and one of his Ghosts tossed him a spear. Spinning it expertly, he let the spear rest on his shoulder, eyeing the young man. “Let’s fight.”

Without warning, he swung his spear for the spy’s neck. Martin dropped to the ground, rolling away. When he jumped up, he held another spear. Hillard didn’t even pause to wonder where he had picked it up, but went in for the attack. There was no thought as they fought, only action and reaction. Every time he made a move, the Alex was ready with a counter attack. Hillard lost track of how long they fought.

Finally, it seemed Martin started to lose steam. Over stepping just by an inch, Hillard saw the opening to take the young spy out of the fight. Quickly swinging his spear around, he smacked it against the spy’s thigh, pressing down. Martin grimaced as he fell to his knees with the spear pressed hard on his leg.

“You’re maimed,” Hillard breathed heavily, leaning over the young man. “You can no longer fight.”

“Maimed I could be,” Martin softly said. Then, as if out of thin air, he suddenly produced a dagger and pressed it against the coronal’s exposed throat. “But you are dead. I won.”

Hillard stared at the dagger. Where had it come from? Before he could figure out where the spy had hidden the knife, the words he spoke suddenly made sense. He lost. How?

Then he realized it. The young spy had overstepped on purpose, he had let him “wound” him, he had let him get close, he had decided to end the fight. Hillard understood that he wasn’t really fighting Martin. The spy was testing his skills. There was not once he had control in this fight. He had lost the moment when the Spy Alex suggested the fight.

“Indeed,” he said, taking his spear away from the spy’s leg. “Now, how about you put that blade back?” Martin grinned briefly as he pulled the knife away, sheaving it in his sleeve.

“Oh,” Chief said, walking up to them, the other Ghosts behind him, “did I forget to mention that he’s just as good with knives as he is with fists?”

“You forgot to mention that, yes,” Hillard grumbled, rubbing his neck where the blade had been. It had been a long time since someone had taken him out in a fight. The audience and Ghosts stared at them, shocked that anyone had actually managed to beat him in a fight.

“Then you accept him into your team?” Chief asked. Not that it mattered if he asked; Hillard had orders to accept the young man into his team.

“How can I say no to a fighter like that?” Hillard asked. “He’s in.”
***************
Martin walked out of the dressing room, tugging at the sleeves of his new uniform. It was Fred’s gift to him after Hillard had accepted him into his team. His audience, the other Ghosts and Fred, were waiting for him as he emerged.

“Excellent,” Fred beamed, “now you look like a proper Ghost.”

Martin glanced at his new uniform. Dark blue, it was similar to the regular army uniforms, though it was trimmed with silver ropes, signifying him as a Ghost. The other difference was that it was better cut than any uniform he ever had before.

“Where did you get this?” Martin asked, quickly checking to make sure his knives slid easily out of his arm sheaves. Hillard’s team shifted uneasily as he put the knives back. “I’m sure I don’t fit any of their uniforms.” Martin liked to think of himself as fit, but Hillard and his team made him look like a scrawny wimp.

“I didn’t spend those two weeks to the Tree just traveling,” Fred said, grinning. “I had these made for you.” Martin jumped a bit. Made for him? He never had any clothes tailored for him. He had always just taken whatever fit.

“Out of curiosity,” Hillard said, idly pointing at him. “Just how many knives do you carry?”

Martin made a quick count. “Generally about six,” he admitted, smiling weakly. “I’ve had up to twelve before.”

Hillard wasn’t the only one who paled at the news. “Why so many?” the coronal asked, exchanging worried glances with his team.

Martin shrugged. “It’s the weapon of spies. And I’m not about to give up that weapon.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Fred agreed. He clapped his hands, turning to the other Ghosts. “Now, time for introductions. You’ve already met Coronal Hillard.” The coronal nodded. “You know Art, Ghost One Thirty.”

“Hey there, Marty!” Suit’s son chuckled, sitting down on a window ledge. Of the Ghosts present, he was the most comfortable around him.

“Hi, Art,” Martin said, holding in a groan. He didn’t like being called Marty.

“The first man you dropped is Perry Irvin, Ghost Twenty Three.” The black man nodded his head. He was shaved completely bald but had a bushy mustache.

“Wayne Clary, Ghost Seventy Nine.” Clary was the shortest man among the Ghosts, though he was still a half head taller than Martin. Clary gave him a lazy salute.

“And then we have Trevor Dixon, Ghost One Sixty Two.” Dixon was the largest of the Ghosts. The black man still seemed a bit miffed about how he had lost the fight earlier, judging from how his arms were folded and his posture hostile.

“And what’s his number going to be?” Dixon asked, jerking his head toward Martin. “He didn’t go through our training.” Martin let out a slow breath. So Dixon was a bit like him, hard working to attain his goals. The large man obviously did not like the idea of him just jumping into their ranks with only one fight to prove himself.

“He already has a number,” Fred chuckled, either not noticing Dixon’s tone or ignoring it. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Ghost Eighty One?”

“That’s your number,” Hillard began to say when he stopped. He frowned, eyeing Martin again. “Let me guess. You used the general’s number this winter? You were at the Stand?”

Martin shrugged again. “I wasn’t going to tell them I was a spy.”

“A smart move on his part,” Fred added before anyone could argue. “I approved of his use of my number. I wasn’t using it and he needed it.” Fred glanced at Martin, considering.

“I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve insisted that Martin join your team,” the general said. Martin grimaced; he wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t want them to know until he was ready. Fred caught the discomfort in his expression and paused. The general sighed, turning back to the other Ghosts.

“And I’m afraid that I cannot tell you why yet,” he said, switching what he was going to say. Martin nearly sighed in relief. “But I want all of you to be aware that I will be staying with you for a time, teaching Martin…” He paused again, carefully wording what he was going to say next. “Teaching him about things that he should have been taught already.”

“Like that wasn’t cryptic,” Hillard snorted. “Anything specific so we at least know why he’s with us? Or how about what he hasn’t been taught?”

“I’m afraid not,” Fred sighed. “Not yet.”
***********
Martin quickly found out that Hillard had been correct about what was happening at Bone. Nothing. The first week he was there, he felt bored out of his mind. It was nearly as bad as the gathering of princes, with one small improvement. Instead of being the student, he was a teacher. He helped the other Ghosts train the townsmen, though that was boring itself. The old men and young boys knew nothing of combat and, while they were enthusiastic, none of them really knew what they were doing.

He had expected Fred to teach him in the evenings, once the townsmen returned home and the fort was left to them, but the general held off. When Martin asked why, Fred shrugged. “I’m waiting for something.”

“What are you waiting for?” Martin asked. He was anxious to get started on his special training. He had been fumbling with his powers and he now understood that was a dangerous practice. He needed to understand what he could do.

“Don’t worry,” Fred said. “I have a plan.” What that plan was, the general never explained. Resigned to wait for Fred to finally tell him what was happening, Martin spent most evenings with the other Ghosts on Hillard’s team. Hillard himself spent most of his evenings with Fred, talking about who knew what.

The evening of the week of his arrival, Martin sat on the end of his bed, watching as his fellow Ghosts played a card game. He had been banished from the game the second evening he was there, when they suspected that he cheated. Martin had done nothing to tell them that he wasn’t cheating.

Art, Clary, Irvin, and Dixon sat in a circle on the floor of their barrack room, beginning another game. The room was large and would have easily slept another ten persons. But the old fort was no longer an army outpost and left mostly empty.

“So that’s when I told the butcher,” Clary was explaining, somehow making sitting on the dirt floor look like lounging, “that I wasn’t interested in his daughter and that I was joining the Ghosts.” He grinned. “I tell ya, the look on his face was priceless!”

“My father was proud when I joined up,” Irvin said, picking up a card. “Said it was about time that someone in our family did something.”

“My da wasn’t so proud of me,” Art sighed dramatically, not looking the least bit sorry. “Ran off…”

“And joined the Ghosts,” Dixon finished, rolling his eyes. “We’ve heard your story before. A spy master’s son who couldn’t spy? I would have hate to grow up like you.”

“The Tree isn’t that bad,” Art said, picking up a card. “Is it, Marty?”

Martin frowned. The day before he had approached Art and asked him to not use that nickname. Art ignored his request. “It’s better than other places I’ve been,” Martin said vaguely.

“Out of curiosity,” Irvin said, turning around to look at Martin. “Did you learn how to give vague answers from Chief or are you naturally like that?”

Martin shrugged. “I guess I learned it from Chief. But I am a private person.”

“Private?” Art snorted. “I could have sworn you couldn’t talk when I first met you. It was a complete surprise when Luke finally got you to talk.”

Martin grimaced, looking away. Art groaned. “Sorry, Marty,” he said. “I forgot…” While Fred hadn’t told them that he was the prince, he did tell them about Luke’s death and how he blamed himself for it.

“I have to get used to it sometime,” Martin sighed. “Luke asked that I name a kid after him.”

“Oh?” Clary asked, raising an eyebrow. “Planning on marrying anytime soon?”

“Eventually.”

“See?” Irvin said, pointing behind him as he focused on the game. “I told you! He’s vague! Dixon, it’s your turn.”

“End the game.”

Everyone turned to the door as both Hillard and Fred stormed into the room. Neither looked very happy.

“I’ve got some news for you,” Hillard said, shaking a crumpled paper in his fist. “One of our scouting boys saw a harass Venter unit roaming around in our mountains and they’re coming our way.”

“Finally!” Irvin said, jumping to his feet. “It’s been boring here!”

“I would have preferred boring,” Fred growled. “But that won’t be the case. Tonight you’ll help the townspeople get ready for battle.”

“We’re too few,” Art said, gathering the cards. “Not to down play these people’s spirit, but they just don’t have the force to defend themselves. Five…” He stopped, glancing briefly at Martin. “Seven men can’t defend everyone.”

“It’ll actually be the six of you,” Fred said, looking worn. “The nearest town is a hard day’s ride from here. There’s another Ghost unit and they have a lot more fighters there.” He turned to Martin. “I was wondering if I might borrow Rowan.”

“Of course,” Martin said, a bit stunned. He had been expecting Fred to make him get the other Ghosts.

“I ride out tonight,” Fred told the others. “I want the rest of you to keep Bone safe until I come back in two days with reinforcements. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the Ghosts said in unison. The general humped satisfied.

“Good. Then let’s get moving!”

The Ghosts were quick to jump up and run out the door. Martin was a bit slower following, stopping Fred outside the room.

“Why aren’t you sending me?” he asked softly. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that I’m not going, but I thought you wanted me out of danger.”

Fred stared at him, a bit surprised. “I never said I wanted you out of danger. Face it, Martin. If you’re not in danger, you get jumpy.” Martin flinched at the accurate statement. “The reason I’m going is because I would be useless in a fight with my knee.”

“You’re in better condition than most of the men here,” Martin snorted.

“Yes,” Fred sighed, “but they have a greater reason for wanting to stay and fight. I also can order the other Ghost unit to march here without having to worry about carriers loosing my orders or the Ghosts challenging those orders. It’s best that I go.”

The Ghost General started to walk toward the stable when Martin caught up with him again. “But…” Martin looked around nervously, though he knew no one was close enough to be listening. “What if… What if I do something? You haven’t taught me anything about controlling my powers.”

Fred grimaced. “No, I haven’t. I was actually going to start your training tomorrow. I don’t have time to teach you much tonight, so I’m just going to have to give you some advice.

“You have a lot of power, the ability to control the land, knowing the emotions of those around you, knowing when you’re in danger, the ability to talk to the Spirit. But there is one thing about these powers you must understand. You control them, they don’t control you. Because you have the control, you’ve got to be the one in charge. It’s going to take practice and hard work on your part, but it is up to you how you use your powers.”

Martin frowned. “That’s not the best advice you’ve given me. Any mage could have told me that.”

Fred shrugged. “Perhaps, but I do think that you need to be reminded that you’re the one with the power. You choose how to use it. Remember that.” The general turned back to the stables when he stopped and turned back. “Oh, and one last thing. Keep your Connection with you. It’ll help.” Without explaining, Fred entered the stables.