Pain that had been easy to ignore under the intense adrenaline of combat washed over Gaba’ké and made his head spin. With only one good eye and a bruised and battered body, the act of leaving Patzau Palace had been more difficult than he anticipated. The blood leaking from his missing left eye refused to relent. It wept down his face, staining his white beard red. Kuta walked with him, equally exhausted by their duel with Janos. He wondered how she felt in this moment. He couldn’t even begin to imagine. She had fought and killed the man who had murdered her adopted mother. And at the same time, she had lost her cousin to Gaba’ké’s short-tempered rage. He had betrayed her and she had stomached that betrayal in order to work together.
Gaba’ké was burdened with the impossible urge to turn back time; to undo all the pain he had caused. He wanted to protect her and support her triumph all at once, but neither were possible. Contradictions that stifled one another into a numb hollowness. Worst of all, he couldn’t read how she was feeling anymore. She ambled forward with an emptiness that mirrored his own. They helped each other down the winding stairwell and out of the palace, leaving behind the warriors that had lost their confident bravado. She was recovering her strength quickly and Gaba’ké found that he was proud of her. He walked on, ready to face one last challenge. But most significantly, he walked on ready to face his own demise. There was something comforting in recognizing that fact without fear or regret. He was ready.
They navigated the choked streets. One invading army had been enough to send the people into a frenzy. Two armies seemed to add little more to the chaos. Those who were fleeing, were already fleeing. Those intent in weathering the storm were already doing so. The only difference now would be the ease in which the Casoyan troops fell to their new adversaries. No longer were they the better trained and equipped. The emperor’s Imperial Navy was built for conquest and masters of that craft they had become.
The grand canal appeared black, reflecting the dark smoke choked the city. By the time he and Kuta reached the wide bridge to cross to the north, Gaba’ké was certain their luck had run out. Kuta knew it too. The Careyago were on their way. They could sense them, not far behind. Such is the gift. Such is the curse. Time was already short, and he had to make a choice. He couldn’t protect Kuta and pursue Yohati. He had to choose.
He readied Kuta for what was to come. Gaba’ké had spent decades honing the art of masking his agindan. It was that skill, more than any other, that had saved his life most. It was a technique dreamt by a younger man’s desperate desire to abandon his responsibilities and vanish. There was a bitter irony in the recognition that his former cowardice amounted to his greatest achievement as an Aginjigaade. To their kind, the world was a tapestry. And where others saw patterns, Aginjigaade saw the threads. The trick Gaba’ké had discovered was to blend in and weave one’s spirit into the design of the world. Aginjigaade rarely looked carefully at spirits unaligned to their own elemental affinity and examining every last spirit would take a lifetime. His technique exploited that blind spot. By mimicking the specificity of a single spirit and letting it draw from you, instead of you from it, and you became invisible. Camouflage your distinctiveness. Become one amongst the uncountable.
The trouble now was his lack of spiritual energy and focus. Maintaining his technique would be near impossible. His eye throbbed painfully. His body was week. He was a frayed thread; exhausted and exposed. Unconcealed, he and Kuta stood out like islands amongst the ocean. Even unseen, waves and currents revealed their presence. He could feel the Careyago drawing closer. Enemies with powerful presences. They travelled in groups of four, twelve total Aginjigaade trained to find, catch, and kill people like them. And with no ability to hide, the only option left was to draw their attention elsewhere and give Kuta a chance at escape.
After they crossed the canal next to Yohati’s estate, and Gaba’ké drew Kuta’s attention. He tried to speak but his voice came our weak and raspy. “I once demonstrated a skill in front of you, back at Banzhiigan’s shop.” He pointed to the little store just around the corner. “The skill to hide your spirit from other Aginjigaade. It is my greatest achievement, and yet it is also a perilous art. I want to pass down this skill to you, for it is not a technique restricted to any one element or affinity or spirit. It is a skill of the agindan. To hide your presence, you must open your agindan and allow a foreign spirit to channel through you, using your power. You must let it reside within you. It will channel power through you in the same way you might channel power through it. This is a dangerous dance, for some spirits are hungry and opportunistic, greedy to draw more power than you offer. It leaves you vulnerable. You let the spirit in, but must never let it consume you.”
He showed her with succinct haste how to focus her own spirit, and how to create a sanctuary within the self to draw a spirit inside. A human totem. “I cannot help you choose a spirit for you, for only you can evaluate a spirit’s temperament. All I can caution is that you choose carefully. Once drawn inside, you will emulate your chosen spirits essence instead of your own. You are not undetectable. You can be seen. A skilled or careful Aginjigaade will still be able to sense you. But in this state, you become easily overlooked. Do you understand?”
Kute nodded. She looked exhausted. Gaba’ké could only hope he looked better. He knew he didn’t. Satisfied, he ordered her onwards. “Go!” he said. “Escape this city and live on.”
“Why me?” Kuta asked. The question seemed so out of place that he answered with a puzzled look. “Why am I worthy?” she clarified. “Why did you come with me to fight Janos? You were willing to die for me, and for my choices and I just don’t understand you. Who am I to you? Why go through all this? she asked, gesturing to Gaba’ké’s still bleeding empty socket. “For what?” she added. “Why?”
Gaba’ké inhaled sharply and then let it out through his nose. He was pondering her questions. “Because,” he said, “I thought you might benefit from a little help. Because that’s all people need sometimes. They need to see there is a path to making things better. You asked me earlier what helped me get better… what helped me heal. I think it happened because I was shown that kindness. And, in helping you, and others, I can only help others find that path. Now go,” he urged. “They’re coming. I’ll keep them from chasing after you.”
“What about Yohati?” Kuta asked.
“Not all battles need be fought at once.” Besides, protecting you will do more good than killing him. And if I fail here, you’ll need all the head-start you can get.
He watched as she disappeared from sight into the throngs of people. He let out a hard cough, and waited for them to come. It took longer than he expected. They had found other prey on their way. Still, Gaba’ké stood like a statue in defense of the bridge, resolute and calm as the first Aginjigaade appeared. The lone presence he had felt earlier, solidified into several figures that drew nearer and then stopped on the opposite side of the bridge. At the head of the group was an Aginjigaade. He was dressed in the golden imperial robes of the very Empire that had once conquered their shared home. With the man marched a small retinue of foot soldiers. The Aginjigaade waved them aside and they stepped back, on guard as he approached the bridge.
Age had made a stranger of the man across from him, but Gaba’ké knew the man’s spirit. “Hello, Flax” Gaba’ké said, greeting his old classmate in their native tongue. It had been many years since he had spoken Ayaani, and the language came back to him as if only yesterday had he last used it. It felt good to speak his mother tongue, even in circumstances like these.
Flax had been Gaba’ké’s junior at the Ayaani Academy. They had been young men back then. Still boys. It was a time long past. Before the Careyago. Now, the man before him had thinning short white hair and a face that had spent a lot of time in the sun. He had a kind face. It was a feature that was in direct conflict with the two-handed blade he held at his side. Flax was a water elemental Aginjigaade, known famously as the water swordsman. Made entirely from water, the sword Flax carried shimmered as if the power of a waterfall were contained within the long thin blade. Even when they had been young men, Flax had been able to cut just about anything with his strange technique. Gaba’ké feared what decades of honing that skill in combat had amounted to.
“Gaba’ké” Flax responded cordially. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“Nor I, you” Gaba’ké replied.
A warm smile touched Flax’s expression. “Wow. It really is you” he said. “Your spirit, even diminished, is unmistakable. How many years has it been?” Flax asked.
“Oh my… forty?” Gaba’ké guessed. He tried to project strength and confidence, but the cough that followed his words undermined that hope. He spat blood. That’s not good, he thought.
Flax observed Gaba’ké’s injuries; the missing hand, the bloody eye socket, the tired spirit. “You seem to have had a rough day” he remarked.
“Minor inconveniences, old friend” Gaba’ké said dismissively. “Life leaves its scars.”
Flax chucked, and lifted his shirt to reveal a great scar across his abdomen that reached up to his left shoulder. “That it does” he agreed. “You’ve aged well, it seems. Lived a long life.”
“Indeed” Gaba’ké concurred. “Age has weathered down the rougher edges I had as a young man. Even with that scar, time seems to have been far kinder to you.”
Flax smiled. “You’re very kind. Where’s Sana? Are you here alone?”
Flax’s question reopened long scarred wounds. The question seemed innocent enough, but Gaba’ké understood the undertone. Now the game has begun. “Yes and no” he lied, “She’s gone. I’ve been working for a merchant out of Onera.”
“Is that so?” Flax replied affably. “Last I heard, you were still working for those exiled princes of Gaag. You know, the ones the emperor and his new governor are after. The uncle and the cousin.”
Gaba’ké suppressed a frown. “I was” he said, “but unfortunately, I failed in that aim. They’re dead.” He held up his missing right hand, hoping it would aid in the ruse.
Flax’s smile remained polite. “I see. Who was the other Aginjigaade you were with not long ago? The one fleeing north. A… metals Aginjigaade I’d wager. Wounded too.”
Gaba’ké’s forced smile faltered. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come now, Gaba’ké” Flax said. “We’re not young men any more. I’m just curious.”
“I’ll answer your question if you answer mine” Gaba’ké suggested. He needed to buy time. Flax nodded in ascent. “Was Patzau Yohati the one who organized this little invasion?”
“Liberation” Flax corrected. He lifted his arms dramatically. “We’ve come in aid of the people of Caso. Expel the inland invaders and whatnot.”
Gaba’ké didn’t care to debate the specifics, “liberation…” he conceded, “What does Patzau Yohati gain from the Careyago out of all this?”
“We’re saving his city from rebels and savages” Flax replied, as if that were the only truth.
Gaba’ké tried not to show his displeasure. “Come now” Gaba’ké said, repeating Flax’s words back to him, “We’re not young men anymore. I’m just curious.”
Flax smiled wide. It was a genuine hearty smile. “You seem to know a lot about secretive Casoyan politics for a man working for a foreign merchant.”
Gaba’ké didn’t take the bait. He wouldn’t allow the conversation to shift without an answer. He waited patiently for Flax to continue.
“Our force is led by Crown Prince Raumekh himself,” Flax relented.
Gaba’ké waited for him to elaborate, but Flax seemed unwilling to do so. “What does that mean, exactly?” Gaba’ké asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t say any more than that” Flax said, “Only that the prince has come in person for a reason.”
Gaba’ké mulled on his words. What reason would the crown prince have for visiting Caso?
“Now to my question,” Flax said, “who was the other Aginjigaade?”
“A local girl,” Gaba’ké answered. “I told her the truth about you.”
For the first time, Flax’s smile faltered. “And what truth is that?”
“That she only had three options” he answered. “Like you, Flax. She had the same choice. Run, fight, or join. It seems fighting strangers for a foreign emperor didn’t appeal to her.”
“I hope you warned her truthfully, about what running means” Flax said, a sad look on his face. “They caught nearly everyone who ran from the academy, in the end” he rued.
“Yet here I stand”
Behind Flax, three more Aginjigaade appeared wearing the same golden robes. They walked with the strutted confidence being powerful affords the young. Gaba’ké remembered being the same way, once. That confidence. That feeling of invincibility.
Flax followed Gaba’ké’s stare and his smile faded a little. “Our time is up, I’m afraid. It was nice catching up with an old friend.” Flax said. He switched to Tralang to allow his comrades to understand, “Surrender, Gaba’ké. Let us bring you in.”
“You and I both know that they won’t let me live” Gaba’ké replied. “Let’s not pretend.”
The three younger Aginjigaade stopped next to Flax and surveyed the old man on the opposite side of the bridge. There were two younger boys and a tall middle-aged woman with broad shoulders. The boys, one short and stocky and the other taller with darker skin, both looked hungry. They stared him down like predators, honing in for the hunt. Gaba’ké brushed their agindans, trying to gauge their affinities. They mimicked the gesture, gauging his strength.
“What are we waiting for” the one boy said impatiently. There was a fire in his eyes. “He’s an injured old man. The four of us can take him down with ease.”
“We don’t have to fight” Gaba’ké said. The fear was finally settling in. He was so tired. The four of them could probably have broken him with just their spiritual pressure.
“Gaba’ké” Flax said with earnest. “Last chance. I’m confident my blade will cut through your hardened skin. You were never a good match against me. This is a fight you can’t win.”
The brash Aginjigaade, impatient and arrogant, didn’t wait for Gaba’ké’s response. He channeled power and a torrent of flame erupted from his palms. The attack was near instantaneous, aimed at incinerating Gaba’ké where he stood even from across the canal. The flamer walked slowly forward, attempting to concentrate the hottest part of his attack at his opponent.
Gaba’ké channeled defensively. He carried a stone on hand for just such an opponent. His skin changed not to one of the harder stones he carried, but to his softest and waxiest. Gaba’ké covered his eyes with his arm and let the flames sweep over him. He felt the heat singe away his clothes. It left him feeling raw and uncomfortable, like in a bath drawn too hot. But he knew he’d live so long as the flames relented. And after what felt an eternity, they did. Knowing he would have to counter before the next attack came, Gaba’ké channeled with what little strength he had left. He roared, the sound broken and primal, and it vibrated through the cobblestones at his feet. He focused on full-scale destruction. The stone bridge, the very ground between them crossing the canal, blew outward in an earth-shattering detonation of power. Splinters of rock flew in all directions, raining rocky debris. Wayward pieces smashed roof tiles and crashed through windows. Chucks tore through nearby boats. The canal was awash with splashes and ripples as the debris that had once been a bridge reached its apex and began its descent back down to the canal.
The fire Aginjigaade cried out as he was blown backward by the powerful blast. The bridge collapsed sending water over the canal walls and capsizing the nearby canal boats. It was almost everything Gaba’ké could muster in that moment. He was ready to collapse. Nothing was left. He fought onto consciousness with what little he had left and failed, blacking out for a moment. He awoke on his knees. He closed his eyes tight, willing the wave of dizziness to pass.
The woman Aginjigaade on the opposite side of the canal channeled. From her feet branched a tree, unnaturally fast, decades of growth bypassed in mere seconds. Its branches grew outwards and wove into a natural bridge, reconnecting the two sides of the canal. Gnarled branches and roots dug deep into the earth, solidifying themselves. The living wood stitched the bridge back into existence as if Gaba’ké had never destroyed it. And as Flax and his three other Aginjigaade began to cross, Gaba’ké knew he was finished. They seemed to know it too. Flax approached, sword in hand. Beside him, the others followed close. The fire Aginjigaade trailed at the rear. He was angry and embarrassed, bleeding from a head wound where a piece of shrapnel must have caught him when the bridge exploded. A ball of flame hovered in his palm, ready to be unleashed.
Gaba’ké fought to stand again and lost. A wave of dizziness washed over him again as the blood rushed to his head. He nearly toppled, but managed to keep his balance, still on his knees. They were nearly across now, and Gaba’ké knew when they reached him, that would be the end. He backed away as fast as he could manage, which turned out to be not at all. He barely had time to react as a second torrent came and bathed him in fire. He channeled, but not before feeling the hot lick of pain as the fire burned his unprotected skin. He stood in his petrified form, the flames searing the very air.
The heat was more painful and less bearable than before. He held on as the flames grew hotter, waiting for the moment of release. It came and Gaba’ké tried in one last desperate attempt. He needed to kill the flamer. He wouldn’t survive another bathing. He needed to shoot a missile of rock. He needed to kill the boy the same way he had killed Yoharum. Instead, he found himself immobilized as vines twisted from the ground and wrapped their grip around his arms and legs. He was already so weak. The flamer seemed vindicated and he smiled a sinister grin.
Flax, on the other hand, seemed saddened. “I’m sorry, old friend” the water swordsman said in Ayanni. It was as good as a farewell as he would get. The blade shimmered, its liquid form moving imperceptibly fast as if pulsating. Condensed power swirled within its small confines. Flax raised the sword over his head. Gaba’ké channeled, hardening his skin. He drew on nothing. The effort felt monumental, and yet still he tried. One last glimpse of power came, and his skin hardened. The sword fell. Flax’s warning rang true. The water blade sliced straight through his hardened skin, carving through his rocky flesh as if it were mist.
Gaba’ké shuddered as he felt his spirit die. I pray it was enough, he thought.
Flax knelt over his fallen elder. His face was etched with a profound sadness. He closed his eyes, placed a hand over Gaba’ké’s head, and silently prayed to the spirits to guide Gaba’ké’s soul onward. The fire Aginjigaade, still fuming, stamped around impatiently.
“Let’s go!” Wuruk urged, “This guy was too easy. He barely put up a fight.”
Flax opened his eyes; his gaze still focused on Gaba’ké’s lifeless body. “Too easy?” he murmured. There was a cold rebuke in his tone. He stood, turning to face the hot-headed boy. “That old man nearly killed you. He was immune to your fire. Even in this weakened state, if Nampa hadn’t caught you, you’d be unconscious down there drowning in the canal.”
Wuruk scowled. “He wasn’t that strong” he countered belligerently.
“When we were sailing into the bay, could you feel the clash of power emanating from the heart of the city?” Flax asked. “Did you miss the part where our opponent was missing an eye and barely had the energy to stand, and yet managed to blow up the bridge?”
Wuruk’s scowl deepened, sheepishly.
“I felt it” Nampa said.
Wuruk turned and scowled at her too. “What’s the big deal?” he asked.
Flax sighed, “I knew this man, once, long ago” he said. “He was very strong. Far more talented and powerful than me. Perhaps, at his best, more powerful than all of us together. Had we the misfortune of fighting against him at his full strength, I’m not confident enough to say we’d have all have survived the encounter.”
“Bullshit” Wuruk said. “Four on one? There’s no chance.”
“I believe Flax believes what he said to be the truth” Reynal said. Flax was surprised. The other boy rarely spoke. Reynal continued, “Had he not faced other enemies before us, our victory would not be so guaranteed.”
Flax nodded, “Never underestimate an enemy. For an enemy that still breathes still has the means to make yours your last.” He turned, no longer smiling, and looked towards the mountains. Whoever you are young metals Aginjigaade, Flax thought, you are blessed to have a warrior like him die for you. I pray you live a good life… and may we never need meet.
“Whatever” Wuruk added dismissively. “There’s another one over there. I want us to beat Melzi’s squad this time! We’re better than those shits.”
Flax turned away, and held back the impulse to backhand the brat. Hurting them doesn’t make them listen, he reminded himself. Flax had known too many like him in his many years. Too many young Aginjigaade infatuated with their own power. Eager to get themselves killed. But then again, this is the military… what else should I expect? Flax sighed, resigning himself to silence on the matter. “Alright, let’s move” he ordered. This day would be long. Their conquest had only just begun.
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