The Creator's Eye: Mover of Fate, Part I

Michael and his companions were marched all through the night, chained together at the neck and forced to walk single file with each man’s hands shackled together behind their backs. The iron cuffs were heavy and chaffed Michael until his skin was raw. The blood had stopped dripping from his head wounds some time ago and had dried in a rusty blotch across his shirt.

  There were two soldiers behind them and another in the front led by the short-tempered Drastos. All of them rode high above them on horseback. These strange invaders all looked about the same to Michael. All had the same greenish pallor and stubby bull-like horns upon their heads. They were completely bald, with neither hair on their scalps nor their chins. They also wore the same garb including black, leathery chest plates with red stars, which Michael assumed were military uniforms.

  No one had spoken since leaving the Crossroads several hours before. It was dark out and Michael had no idea where they were. He was befuddled about the day’s events. A short time ago he had tried to save one of these men and now he was a prisoner to them. It seemed unlikely that this was the result of some kind of Fold. They had obviously kidnapped everyone at the Crossroads and taken them away. ‘But where?’ he pondered to himself, ‘and why? And where were the other horsemen going?’

  Michael decided to take a chance with Drastos’ temper. “Where are you taking us?” he asked.

  Drastos ignored him.

  “We need to see the healers at Alexandria,” Michael tried again a little more forcefully. “There’s a little girl who will die if we don’t get help.”

  There was still no response, but John glared apprehensively at Michael over his shoulder.

  Michael considered a different plea, “Back in my village, I saw one of your people being chased by dogs.”

  With the wave of a hand, Drastos brought the march to a sudden halt. He spun his horse about and brought it alongside Michael.

  “Oh?” he asked, curiously, “and what happened to him?”

  Michael hesitated, but remembered that he tried to help the man. He thought that should count for something. “I tried to save him. I fought off the dogs, but his wounds were too great. He was already dead. My friends and I carried his body―”

  Drastos suddenly kicked Michael in the head, sending him toppling over. His chains dragged his companions down into a dusty pile. The other soldiers glared at Michael from atop their steeds.

  “Neacan was a traitor!” snarled his captor. “Those dogs were supposed to tear him to pieces, you stupid roundhead! Thanks for confirming that they did.” He yelled at them to get up and keep marching.

  “Where are you taking us?” Michael protested.

  “If you waggle your tongue again, I’m going to cut it off,” threatened Drastos.

  “Do what he says,” John urged, wincing like a scolded puppy.

  The blood had started to leak anew from the blow to Michael’s head. He saw his companions all kneeling on the ground and realized that he was causing trouble for them, too. Drastos was too quick to anger, so Michael decided to keep his mouth shut for now.

  •••

  As the sun rose over the exhausted prisoners, Michael was surprised to see the stone walls and brick red rooftops of Alexandria rise in the distance. He suddenly felt more at ease, as if his plans to visit the Academy and Chancellor Smith were still somewhat intact. ‘But why were these soldiers taking him there?’ he wondered.

  Alexandria was encircled by a great stone wall. The Memphis River, which fed the city and nearby farms, flowed along the western flank of the city. As they approached, they crossed a bridge over it and the massive steel gate of the city cranked opened for them.

  Michael had been to Alexandria a few times with his mother before she became ill. He remembered the streets as bustling with students, professors, and scholars, all engrossed in the study of Moving, but there was no sign of any of that now. Instead, black and red-garbed men marched in rows with swords at their sides and horns on their heads. Others lugged weapons and armor, loading them onto carts. Some of the soldiers stared at the prisoners as they walked past while a few of them sneered. Michael thought he heard some mumble “roundheads” and “profaners” under their breath, but most seemed too engrossed in their chores to pay them any mind.

  The prisoners marched through the cobblestone streets shaded by broad sycamore trees, three-story row houses, and venerable college buildings. They came to a wide plaza which was usually full of people talking or playing games in between classes. Drastos brought them to a stop in the center and ordered the other soldiers to remove their neck cuffs.

  With his collar gone, Michael breathed deeply and stretched his aching neck. But there was no time to relax. Boots, shouts, and threatening sword tips prodded him to stand shoulder to shoulder with his mates. They faced a long colonnaded dormitory at the far end of the plaza. Michael stood on the far right, with John immediately to his left. John was shaking and Michael could feel cold sweat on his arm as they stood together. They waited in this position for several minutes. Occasionally Drastos barked at them to keep still.

  Finally, a large arched door swung open on the left side of the plaza. Michael craned his head to look, but Drastos howled, “Face forward, human!”

  Michael snapped back into position, but tried to see what was happening out of the corner of his eye. A dozen soldiers emerged in two neat rows. Several had long horns like the captain at the Crossroads. They marched in unison with right hands on the hilt of their swords and the other swinging stiffly at their sides. At their lead was an impressive figure. He was taller than the others, his horns were even longer, and he even had several additional ones that ran down the center of his scalp in three rows of short spikes. His skin was grey-green like the other soldiers, but noticeably brighter than theirs. He also wore a heavier suit of armor with bands of radiant gold encircling his chest and shoulders. His gauntlets and epaulets were of a shimmering crimson metal that Michael had never seen before. A cape of red and black rolled over his shoulders and billowed at his sides making him appear even larger. More striking than this outfit, was his intense countenance. With a furrowed brow, he approached Drastos, who dipped his head at his presence, “My Lord Acheron.”

  Acheron ignored the formalities and went straight to business. “Why are you back so soon?”

  A long-horned soldier standing behind Acheron produced a notepad and began scribbling as they spoke.

  Drastos replied, “We were traveling west and had just reached the Crossroads when we came across these four. They tried to run away, but we captured them and brought them back here. Demetros is continuing west.”

  Michael assumed he was referring to his captain. He cringed at the suggestion that they were heading towards New Canaan.

  “Did you interrogate the prisoners or get their names?” asked Acheron. He still had not made eye contact with Drastos and instead stared intently at the four prisoners.

  “No, I thought that best to leave to you,” Drastos answered subordinately.

  “Good,” said Acheron. He paced slowly before Aiden, Donald, John, and Michael, his eyes piercing into each of their faces. He stopped before John, who began to shake more violently.

  “What is your name?” asked Acheron with a breathy hiss.