Kulan of Reolia Part 2
Note: This is part of a series of short stories based in the world of Ivanturia. The primary purpose of the stories is to explore the world, so more focus has been given to that than plot.
Part 1
Kulan trudged nervously along the street. Smooth, as all Reolian streets should be. As his small group passed, the people would spare them a glance, and then return to their work. These people must see soldiers marching prisoners up streets much more frequently than average villagers. Their escort seemed to be leading them toward one of the few permanent buildings, a large, imposing, square construction with smooth, slightly sloped walls. Whoever this “master” was, he liked Reolian architecture.
“So,” Kulan half-mumbled, “why do you live down here?”
The soldier looked at him without slowing the pace, “Classified,” he snapped. Kulan decided to remain silent until they reached their destination.
Upon reaching the building, the soldier quietly rapped on the wooden doors. Reolians couldn’t craft wooden doors like they could stone ones, but Reolians also disliked complex contraptions, and no one had discovered a simple way to push heavy stone doors open.
Another guard opened the doors, and nodded to their escort, who strode into the building. Prest sulked after him. Kulan looked longingly at the open streets behind him, but followed after the two others. The guard at the door nodded approvingly.
Catching up with Prest, Kulan asked, “What’s going? What did you do?”
Prest looked at him, and shook his head. “Irrelevant, we need to focus on getting out of here,” Prest answered. “Look for an opening. Between the two of us, we can probably break a hole in the building. It isn’t a prison, they won’t have a wooden barrier.” Kulan nodded and returned to his silence.
The original soldier, now joined by the guard at the door, led them into a central room. Not a large room, mostly filled with a big table. Lamps hung on the left and right walls, providing almost sufficient light. Across the table from them sat a human. He had the usual dark brown hair and eyes, but a lighter skin tone. Kulan had seen miners with light skin like this man’s, from spending too much time away from the sun.
“I see you caught the fugitive,” the man, presumably the master, said, “but no one informed me of the other one. Why is he here?”
“He’s from the mining battalions, sir,” the soldier answered. “I caught him helping Prest escape. He clearly did not know about us sir, since he was digging towards the cavern.”
The master simply raised an eyebrow, a smile twitching at his lips. Then the chair beneath him collapsed, metal supports having melted away at Prest’s mental command. Prest jumped to the side.
“Now,” he screamed. Kulan recovered quickly from his shock, his reflexes honed by many escapes from collapsing tunnels, and caused stone to flow up around one guard’s foot, pinning him out of reach of his fellow. Prest fought the other man hand to hand, since the soldier’s weapon was merely a puddle on the ground. Fortunately for the soldier, he wore a leather jerkin, rather than metal. Kulan managed to wrap a loop of stone around the soldier’s hand, pinning it to the ground.
Prest reached his hand into the metal of the soldier’s weapon, drawing it up to form a metal cast around his fist. His opponent reached up to attack him, but Prest grabbed the arm with his uncovered hand. Then he smashed the metal fist into the man’s face. Kulan looked away, horrified. As Kulan turned he caught the master rising, pulling out a wooden staff. Quickly, Kulan pulled up a cocoon of stone, encasing the master up to the waist. His opponent growled, but stood helplessly trapped.
“Let’s go,” Prest called. “More will be here soon.” Kulan nodded, creating a new hole in the wall for them to escape through.
“What guild is the master from?” Kulan inquired, as they ran down the street.
“I don’t know,” Prest answered. “Maybe a Freelancer, he has never shown any powers. Save your breath.” Freelancer? In leadership? Guildsmen don’t tend to like those without powers. They fled the building running for the edge of the cave. Prest still wore his metal fist, and used it to smash through a merchant’s cart, scattering debris across the street. A merchant’s cart? This is a city.
Just as they reached the edge of the cavern, a small flock of birds landed ahead of them. They each carried something in their talons, a wooden cudgel. Within seconds the birds vanished, replaced by the same number of soldiers, each with a cudgel at their feet. They have no armor. I guess that doesn’t transform with them, Kulan thought, then his mind turned to more grim news. So many Cerelans, almost as many as we have in all of Toric city. He immediately stretched stone up towards one, but the man vanished, and as his hawk form flew towards Kulan, brandishing the cudgel surprisingly effectively. Kulan ducked, barely avoiding the bird’s attack. Suddenly, Kulan’s shoulder flourished with pain, an eagle’s claw embedded in the flesh. With his other arm, Kulan knocked the bird off, but it quickly rose again. I didn’t train for this, Kulan thought desperately.
One of the birds transformed over Prest, knocking him to the ground. “That’s for my brother, murderer!” the man screamed in rage.
Kulan froze. “Murderer?” he said in disbelief. Beside him, the eagle became a man.
“He didn’t tell you, did he?” the man growled, and swung the cudgel at Kulan’s head. All went black.
Kulan awoke in a bed, his shoulder and head throbbing. Light filtered through the canvas above him, barely illuminating the dim tent. Three other beds, all empty, sat arranged in a square. On one end of the tent, a dwarf sat at a desk, reading by the light of a lamp. Involuntarily, Kulan coughed, feeling something rise from his throat. His watcher looked up.
“Good, you’re awake,” he said. “The master would like to speak with you.” Kulan nodded dumbly. I should say something. Argue, he thought, but couldn’t bring up the strength.
After some time, Kulan didn’t know how long, the master entered with two guards. The man looked at Kulan disapprovingly, before sitting on one of the empty beds.
“Prest has killed two of my men, and injured another severely. From my soldiers’ reports I understand that you didn’t know of his crimes.” Kulan shook his head. The master frowned, glancing at the man at the desk. A doctor, perhaps?
“Then you deserve some explanation. We are the League of Defenders. We will defend the people of Ivanturia from the oppression of the empire. We will win freedom from the rigidity of the guilds. And we will do it soon.”
“So,” Kulan began, finally finding his tongue, “you’re rebels.”
The master smiled, “Yes, we are. And I am afraid you received more than you bargained for when you helped Prest. So I give you a choice: you may join us in this unit or we will take you to a safe haven where you can continue your trade.”
“But working for your League?” Kulan guessed.
“I’m afraid so. You know the location of this camp; we can’t let you leave. The man you were died in that tunnel collapse.”
“I have a family, sir.”
“We can arrange for them to join you. Toric is a big city, unfortunate murders happen. Whole families rarely die, true, but I imagine someone hoarding gold from the mines would be a target.”
Kulan stared at the man before him for a long moment. I don’t really have a choice.
“Get my family, I’ll go to your safe haven.”
“I’m glad we could come to an understanding,” the master stood to leave.
“Sir, what will happen to Prest?”
The master grimaced, “We will need at least one body to replace your family’s.”
