Ghulamen

Author's Note: Hi all, just wanted to say if you're looking for a quick trip to the lemons, this isn't it. It's a bit more of a slow burn and part of a bigger, cohesive piece. That being said, enjoy!

--

She stood, a statue of blood. Rivulets flowed through the scores in her amour, drenching her through her plate, mail and leather all the way to her skin. She'd earned the divots through enough battles that she no longer counted, both human and Hell-spawn, but she detested the waste of what flowed through them.

If you were inferior, why resist? Let the Am'thon do what they were born to do. It was their duty.

She felt no guilt as her Mele'can, her elite guard, made quick work of the remainder of the opposition. This village was as good as theirs. Still, she held on to the thrum of the Verve, its immense energy coursed through her body, a vibrating pleasure she rarely let herself experience any longer. She allowed herself to continue surging on the grounds of remaining prepared till the end of the battle, lest something unexpected occur.

"Are they extinguished?" she asked her Mele'can, hiding her hope of contradictory indication from her tone. Not that she particularly wanted more resistance. But the idea of releasing the energy thrumming through her...

"Yes, Ma'thala," came the quick reply.

With an inward sigh, Bianca al'Triae the Fierce, eighteenth Ma'thalan Matriarch of the Caltama tribe, released the Verve. She barely slumped, a testament to her discipline. She had been surging for several hours at a furious pace.

"Very good. I will see the subdued now," she sighed.

I require a daughter, Bianca thought to herself tiredly as she followed her guard.

Bianca wasn't old and she didn't necessarily want a child for its own sake. Although she was well within child-rearing age by her tribe's estimation, she had only seen eighteen winters yet. Her legs were long, her body was strong, ripe and rounded in the places that made even the men she engaged in combat with look as they tried to kill her. Entirely impractical in the physical sense, but incredibly effective against the male sex. No, Bianca's difficulties only stemmed from her colossal ability to tap into the Verve. She had grown too strong, too quickly, and was increasingly a weakness to the tribe.

The Verve was the everflowing river, the tide of time, the energy of the world. Uniquely blessed with its surge, the Caltama tribe was often honored with leading the tribes in repelling the Terrors of the darkened territories. Each of their young was born with the ability to tap the Verve, without fail. The longer one lived and trained, the bigger the connection one could open into the Verve.

Bianca surveyed the village as she walked through it. More of a ragtag gathering of huts in the middle of a forest rather than a village, she noted. Perhaps it only looked that way because the majority were burning. In any case, she couldn't help but compare it against her home territory of Caltama with its beautiful stone temples and granite walls, only possible through the power of the Verve.

The Verve enhanced one's physical speed and strength, but also their reflexes and mental acuity. Things could be processed quicker, producing sometimes terrible efficiency in the heat of combat. Certain manifestations could also be cultivated, called Ikim, or *Kairn, appearing in women or men, respectively. The ability to heal at speed, to lend energy to the weak, even the ability to produce physical manifestations of the Verve as pure light that could cut through bedrock had all been logged in the archives -- though someone with the ability to generate a blade of Verve had not been seen since the time of the temples' creation. Bianca herself had manifested a rare hereditary Ikim, of healing with the Verve.

Bianca gazed jealously at her Mele'can as they strode in their joyous pairs. Each pair always took turns surging, staying on guard for their Ma'thala, who could not risk a careless surge. She sighed internally yet again, remembering when she had been Mele'can, before her trial, before her challenge issuance.

Before she had grown far, far too strong.

The problem arose in the buffer between an individual and the Verve. The larger the connection, the more focus it took to open the connection, and the longer it was required to sustain such focus. Bianca was at the stage where she required several minutes of meditation to involve herself in any fight with the full protection of the Verve. She had passed the practical stage of surging, now needing her elite guard to protect her while she meditated before battle, and indeed had stopped training entirely, only allowing herself to surge when necessary. It had happened before, though rarely. It signified an overwhelming power of bloodline, the elders foaming at the mouth for her potential children. She wouldn't be surprised if they demanded she have more than the usual three daughters.

Bianca was willing. She longed to test her true limits without concerning herself with the battle practicality of her abilities.

If she were to choose a Ghulam, a mate, here for example, then she could have a daughter who, when of age, would allow her to pass on Umantellu -- the Mantle.

Granted she was strong enough, of course. But Bianca refused to settle for anything less than her standard. And so far...

The Mele'can showed her into one of the few huts that wasn't yet burning, the stink of men inside searing her nostrils.

...No man had measured up. She'd shared a few men of at least tolerable smell and stature belonging to her Mele'can with them, and even then...Bianca sighed. Something was always...missing.

Bianca surveyed the subdued -- the men that her Mele'can had found worthy of being taken captive.

They were physically attractive, certainly.

Large physical stature, and musculature, many even taller than Bianca herself. Still, she found within herself a distinct lack of appeal to these men. Few could meet her eye, and of those, none made her feel anything other than disgust, and at most, pity.

She was fully aware of her duty to her people and theirs, and the privileges she was offered as a result. She had rights to any fresh pick of the subdued, and she was to choose one and conceive an heir on her terms. Such was the way. Appeal, attraction...these did not factor into the choice. She would act for the good of the tribe, she told herself.

And yet...

She looked at the men again, sighing in defeat. She turned around, shaking her head.

"Shala earned first pick," she informed her guards and began to walk away. They gave a collective groan, flashing handspeak to each other, but they understood her plight even if unable couldn't relate to it. They quickly began divvying men.

The next raid, she thought to herself. In the next raid, I will find him.

It was not the first time she had consoled herself this way.

She could wait at least a little longer, despite the tittering it might arouse back home.

Besides, it was her duty to the tribe to find the best man possible, was it not? Why should she settle?

One more raid. Then she for sure, she would pick.

--

Artem shot from branch to branch in a panic, each significantly thicker than two men abreast. Trees with trunks multiple-village-huts-width in circumference flitted past him, the Nordan Red Oaks, the signature of Artem's homeland. Their awesome size made up the bulk of forest in the deciduous Nordan region, a naturally-occurring imperious shelter from the elements for many villages.

Artem tried to calm his erratic breath, resisting the urge to peer into the sunset-lit woods behind him.

Live, breathe, report.

The Scout's motto echoed in his mind as he traversed at a break-neck pace. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. He felt jittery, weirdly obligated to go back, to fight. As though he was being a coward.

Live, breathe, report.

The rumors were true. He'd seen it. Jokes around the fire about women raiding villages in the dead of night, the side-eyes, the laughs, but--

Jokes no longer.

He had seen them. They were women, yes, but he could tell by the way they moved, the organization, the dents in their armor, the blood stains...their eyes. He'd been close enough to feel the thrum of their channeling, like abrupt, violent waves across an otherwise halcyon pond.

Live, breathe, report.

Artem saw the light of the village ahead. He descended to the lower branches, catching a smaller offshoot in his hands and flipping down to the ground, hitting it running.

"Sound the bell!" he cried out to the two standing at the gate.

He could make out their faces now. Galid and Neale. They stood idiotically, unmoving.

Artem cursed, moving to get past them, but one caught his arm, dragging him to stop. Wild irritation flashed through him, but he took the opportunity to catch his breath, placing his hands on his knees.

"Are you all right, Artem?"

"You need to--" Artem managed between breaths, "--sound the bell!"

They didn't move. Art watched them pass a look that he couldn't discern. Were they smiling?

"Alright. Take a knee, take a breath, and tell us what you saw," Galid said gently.

Irritation flared through him again, but he complied, dropping to one knee in the dirt. Why won't they just listen?

"A troop of Am'thon -- approaching -- from the north," he tried again.

They both looked at him, expressionless, then passed another look, eyes widening. Then they broke out laughing.

"Oh, a troop of Am'thon? Is that all?" Galid grinned conspiratorily, putting a hand on Artem's shoulder.

"Are they riding demons, too?" Neale guffawed, mouth opening disturbingly wide.

"I was a scout once too, you know," Galid raised his eyebrows in a meaningful look at Artem. "Although my pranks never involved the Am'thon."

"You don't understand," Artem pressed, "I saw them. Don't you get it? That's why we didn't hear from any of the northern villages, they're coming here from the northern border!"

"I'm sure you did. Just like I saw the Goddesses Lillith and Shira come down to inform me that the village should throw a feast in their honor. Of course, that it was to be on the same day as my birthday was merely a...coincidence." Galid gave a wide-toothed smile.

"You know, what if he's right," Neale said, sobering suddenly. Artem blinked. Then Neale broke into a sly grin.

"Maybe they finally heard how many strapping young men we have down here!" They broke into fresh laughter.

Why can't they see the gravity of the situation? Artem thought, burying his forehead in his palm. Fucking idiots.

"Aww, no now you've done it Galid, look, he's crying. You'll make Callahan mad at us again," Neale chortled.

"Look, if it makes you feel better, I'll go for confirmation, okay?" Galid tried to assure him, hand squeezing Artem's shoulder. All Artem felt was pissed.

They dismissed him because he was merely a scout.

Forget that he was of age, at eighteen winters.

Forget that he was taller than any of them, if still skinny.

Forget that he could whoop any one of their asses in a contest of fist, wood or iron, they looked down on him merely because he remained a scout.

If this was but two weeks later...

Artem shrugged off Galid's hand and began marching to the center of the village, looking for Callahan. There was supposed to be a meeting tonight... Neale soon caught up, quickly maneuvering in front of Artem, putting a hand to his chest.

"Hey, I get it," he began in a placating tone, "Galid's gone to look okay, no need to worry. It's not worth disturbing the Council. Not today," he said. Artem ignored him.

"Callahan!" he yelled past Neale.

"Hey now, don't do that--" Neale put his hand over Artem's mouth, and Artem reacted instinctively, grabbing his wrist and twisting, throwing Neale over his hip. Neale grunted, landing on the dirt in a heap. He stood up quickly, brushing himself off.

"I tried to be understanding, dipshit. Now I'm angry." Artem felt the sudden thrum of energy from behind him that told him Neale had begun channeling the Verve.

"Callahan! I have news for the Council!" Artem called again but swung around to face Neale warily.

"You're old enough," Neale said suddenly. "You're old enough to learn what makes separates the guard from the scouts."

Neale moved quicker than a snake, shooting an elbow across the gap toward Artem's solar plexus. Artem watched him carefully, not yet channeling himself. He sidestepped at the last moment and shoved Neale with his entire body weight. Neale, caught entirely off-guard, stumbled, but lithely recovered, gracefully spinning back around. He narrowed his eyes, and Artem tucked his tongue up against his upper palate, breathing in deeply through his nose. He sought to dig through the wall that separated him from the Verve, knowing it would take several seconds at least. If realizes I know before I break through, I'm fucked.

"You little..." Neale's eyes widened. He stepped forward--

"Runts." Callahan's dry voice cut through the air like a scythe, and both Neale and Artem froze.

He's angry...

"Would either of you care to explain why you're scrapping outside the Council's meeting?"

Artem dropped to his knees, bowing his head to the ground.

"Reporting sir. A troop of Am'thon, three leagues north."

Callahan glanced at Neale.

"Unconfirmed. Galid's gone to check, sir." Neale hesitated, scrubbing dirt from his face before adding, "We thought Artem might have just gotten scared again sir. Didn't think it was necessary to bother the Council."

Artem bristled but otherwise didn't move.

"You didn't think it was necessary." Something about Callahan's tone shot twinges of fear through even Artem's spine. Neale blanched.

"Uh...No sir."

"Rise, scout." Callahan faced Artem.

Artem rose.

"Tell me precisely what you saw."

"Sir. They were combing the forest in pairs. Each had a spear and dagger, full plate armor over mail. I hid presence, took the tops back here once they passed through. Oh, and sir," Artem hesitated, glancing at Neale. Well. He told me to be precise.

"Each pair had an active channeler."

Neale sucked in a breath and Callahan grimaced, muttering something under his breath. It sounded like something- tama.

"How! Who told him? Why does he know? He's just a--" Neale finally fulminated, having found his voice again.

Callahan silenced him with another look. His jaw worked for a moment.

"I hope you're wrong about what you saw, boyo." He stared at Artem for a moment before continuing. "Although from what you described..." He gritted his teeth, then turned to Neale. "Neale. Sound the bell, now. Get the families ready in the tunnels, cement the gates."

Neale had gone entirely pale. He stuttered for a moment.

"Now."

"Y--Yes sir." He turned, breaking into a sprint. Artem watched him run, the hum in the air fading as he left. Artem glanced at Callahan, whose eyes were distracted. He was running a finger along a long scar that ran laterally across his collarbone, almost hidden among the crags of his leathered skin.

"I hope you're wrong, boyo," he repeated, "Because if you're not, well...you're already one miracle." Callahan turned on his heel, striding back into the village hall. "I don't think we're getting another."

"Miracle, sir?" Artem asked, following him.

"You. Returning." It took Artem a second to realize what he meant.

"Galid...?" Artem began.

"Good as dead." The reality of his words took a second to sink in. No...but I...

"I can catch him, Gramps," Artem said quickly, forgetting formality.

"No." Callahan shook his head as they entered the Council meeting. Several members stood as they walked in, eyes curious.

"But I'm faster than him. I know the pace they were going. I'll make it, I promise. I'll be safe, sir," he added, conscious of the other Council members.

"No," Callahan said again, lifting a hand as if to shush him.

"But Galid--"

"No!" Callahan swung toward him. "I'm not risking it. I need you here." Callahan put a gnarled hand on Artem's shoulder. "You're..." He grimaced. "Mau ni siri," he muttered, face scrunching. Then sighed. "Of all the bad luck."

Artem was confused. What had he been about to say?

"I really, really, hope that you're wrong," Callahan almost whispered.

"Callahan?" a Council member finally cut in. It was Jebah, the village head. "What's going on?"

Callahan described Artem's report in a low tone. By the time he explained about Galid, the other Council members had begun to look as Neale had.

But I can save him... Artem thought in protest.

Even Jebah was white-faced, taking a moment to gather his wits.

"Okay, folks. We treat this like it's real until we know for sure. Valin, gather the women and children..." Jebah began giving orders, and Artem followed Callahan back outside.

Kaitlin, Galid's little sister ran up to him. She was only a little younger than him, having just seen her sixteenth winter.

"Where's Galid?" she asked Artem, casting a puzzled look at the sudden rush of Council members from inside. They hurried past, heading in separate directions. Artem saw her, saw the beginnings of concern on her face. Artem didn't answer her.

'Galid?'

'Good as dead.'

***

"Where's Galid?"

A moment later, Callahan registered who had just spoken and suddenly felt a bad premonition. He turned around abruptly. Artem was gone.

No! He's our strongest by far, Callahan thought but immediately experienced a spike of guilt. Thrust right into battle on the onset of manhood...

Callahan felt a deep dread settle on his bones.

Just like I was.

Just then, the emergency bell began tolling, and the village erupted.

--

I will find him. Artem tore through the darkening village, heedless of the tolling bell, of the ensuing chaos. He pressed his tongue up against his upper palate firmly, breathing deep. He focused on the river, pulling himself through the muck that was the barrier. C'mon...

He launched himself over the wall, past Neale who was busy shouting orders. Neale did a double take.

"What the..."

Artem didn't pay him any mind, just concentrated further. He opened himself up to the Verve, reaching, thrusting himself deep into its flows and pulling its tide unto himself.

He felt it then, the seeping sense of vibrancy, the rapid oscillations that sang in his bones. He grinned despite himself, unable to combat the effervescent resonance brought on by tapping the Verve, deepening as you went.

Artem jumped up several feet, alighting softly on a lower branch with the opposite foot before jumping again, repeating the process, making his way up into the crowns of the red oaks. This is my home. Mine.

He gazed down at the lower branches Galid was likely using, using his enhanced vision to look for any sign in the fading twilight...

There!

Artem spotted a pattern of freshly dislodged moss on the branches below.

He followed it, seeing a shadowed figure sitting in the distance on a middle branch, leaning against a trunk, clearly scouting.

Galid!

Artem resisted calling out, instead shifting down to land on Galid's branch. Even at this distance, even with his enhanced vision, he could barely see him. It was getting much darker. The moon was coming out.

"Galid!" Artem whispered. "We need to go back. Callahan said..."