From "The Solitary And The Mercenary" By Janalyn Robnett Copyright 2013 Registered with the Writer's Guild - West 2013
From Chapter 14: (Unedited as yet, so any grammatical or spelling mistakes here are mine. Also, I spell 'magick' here with a 'k' at the end to distinguish it from the sleight-oh-hand stage show magic. -J.R.-)
Gaelin came up to them with Perry at his heels. "There's bodies everywhere, boss," He was as worried as all of them. "I have no idea if Kylan is among them. It looks like only students were hit. Kids, boss," Gaelin choked on the words. "Just young boys and girls. Couldn't be any more than fourteen if they're a day. Some older. Whoever did this, " he shook his head, grimacing, unable to finish his thought.
"Damn Society bastards," Lance said and pulled his plasma rifle forward, sliding a shot into its chamber. "We find Kylan. Now." He took off, not waiting for Blake to give the word.
Blake was terrified of what they would find, but he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. "You heard the man. Let's find our Spryte."
Gaelin and Perry exchanged glances and fell into step beside Blake who kept his head ramrod straight, his eyes directly ahead. He ignored the burned out walls, the still flaming wooden areas. He ignored the blaster marks, the grenade craters black as night. He ignored the ripped up bodies of the young people around them, killed simply because they were mages.
"Would they have fought back with their magick?" Perry asked, uncertain, but more disbelieving than anything. He was a gentle soul and would do whatever he needed to do to get his feelings under control.
"The Orders teach peaceful methods, never to use their magick unless warranted. These young people probably thought they were obeying their vows by not letting loose their energies," Blake explained.
"Would Kylan have kept his vows?"
"After what happened on Ascar Nem," Gaelin said, shaking his head. "I doubt he would ever want to kill with his magick again."
"I hope for all our sakes you're wrong about that, G." Blake said, not looking at him. "As much as it pains me to say it, I truly hope you are."
Gaelin lowered his head. "Yeah. Me, too," he agreed.
But Blake knew Kylan had not used his magick. If he had, his Solitary power would have kept this massacre from happening. Blake stopped dead in his tracks when he almost stepped on a young woman's body, her mid-section blown out by a blaster bolt at close range. He stared at her face and almost wept. "Look at her," he choked. "Look at her face."
Gaelin and Perry did so. Lance was getting farther and farther away from them, but Blake could not tear his eyes from the young woman's face.
"What is it, boss?" Gaelin asked. "What do you see? They didn't do anything to her face."
"I doubt seriously they could," Blake said. He squatted down and brushed the woman's strawberry blonde hair from her open, green eyes. She looked so… peaceful. There was not a hint of surprise or pain or anger or hatred on that beautiful face. She had been a pudgy girl, the double-chin and rounded cheeks and pudgy fingers indicating she liked her food. But that look of peace on her face, it ripped at Blake's soul. "She would have made Adept," he said. And he wondered if Kylan knew her. "Such peace," he muttered, unable to believe that in the midst of being killed so criminally and violently there was a look of release on her face.
Perry put a hand to Blake's shoulders and squeezed. "At least she took back what power she could before the blast took her away."
Blake nodded.
Gaelin took off his coat to cover her head when Blake stood and stopped him. "No," he said. "Leave her be. That look on her face has actually given me hope for the mages. Even in her death she is sending a message. Don't touch her face."
Gaelin put his coat back on. "Right, boss."
A shrill cry split the air. Blake knew the sound of that voice. He turned to the monastery only to see Lance turn to him and point within its burned out walls. "KYLAN!"
Blake pulled his blaster and started after Lance, but he felt like he was moving so damn slow, as though a strong wind swept up to push him back. He pushed against the feeling, ordering his legs to move, to run.
The cry came again, one of agony. Kylan was being tortured.
