Inhuman

“Cici,” the soft, lilting voice sliced into Narissa’s mind sharper than any dagger. It was the voice of winter wind, hushed yet so biting as to get into your very bones. She shuddered, refusing to open her eyes.

“Cici.”

She will not respond. She will not look. If she didn’t look, she couldn’t see what new method of interrogation they have brought to her today.

“I can see your secrets.”

She shuddered again, partially at the strange way he formed sentences and put words together. It was as though he had found a butchered calf and was trying to piece it back together without ever having seen one whole.

“Why hide? You are found. Why still hide?”

Wrapping her arms closer to herself, she bowed her head until her chin touched her chest.

“Cici,” he whispered, “give up your hidden truth.”

She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. After interrogating many citizens, Captain Manisutti had guessed she had been the last person to see Aniah. He had demanded she tell him where the Heir had gone, and she had been forced to relinquish what she knew. But she would tell no more.

It wouldn’t matter. Once Aniah was found, it wouldn’t take long for everything else to be revealed as well.

*

“For your first battle, you will only be an observer,” Sackrin explained. He walked beside Jistan, Karrin a step behind. They moved with an entire unit of Mind Scythe, one of the flanking forces that would join the battle after the initial strike team engaged.

Jistan’s heart was in his throat. After being told he was ready for advancement, he had expected further training. He still didn’t even know who these mysterious ‘Delani’ were. But no, after passing the tests the previous day he had been promptly assigned a unit and sent out to fight. The fact that he was ‘only an observer’ was little comfort. He would still be on a battlefield surrounded by enemies with essentially no formal military training.

Sackrin was still speaking. “You will stay back with two Mind Scythe’s held in reserve. They will defend you if necessary, though it is unlikely you will be noticed. Your only job is to observe the Delani.”

Karrin clapped a hand on Jistan’s shoulder. “It’s alright, you can say it. Arellia’s crazy. We’ll fight for her to our dying breath, but we all think she’s a little psychotic, not giving anyone proper training or information before throwing them into a battle.”

Jistan gaped at her, but no of the other Mind Scythe protested. “Well,” he said slowly. “If you all think that, then why don’t you do something about it? Take it upon yourself to train new recruits. Or at least let them know what in the Flames is going on.”

“Arellia has her ways, and they are set,” Sackrin said, a note of solemnity in his voice. “We obey, not because we always agree, but because it is for the ultimate security of Manicot as a whole.” He paused, one corner of his lips quirking up in a smirk. “Besides, it may be easier to simply make you watch than try to explain it to you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jistan demanded.

“You’ll see,” Sackrin replied airily. Jistan thought this was hardly a time for jokes, but the lump in his stomach and his dry throat stopped him from making a retort. Instead, he walked in silence, feeling the apprehension build in his chest as they marched forward.

*

Jistan watched from the crest of a hill, backlit by the sun and hidden behind thick shrubs. The first strike force had barely engaged with the enemy, whom Jistan could only barely make out. They were hidden within dense foliage, and Jistan couldn’t see more than vague shapes and movements. However, the further the sun rose, the clearer they became.

The initial strike consisted of a line of archers covering a group of heavy infantry soldiers as they charged into the woods. Beside each archer stood a Will Master or apprentice, clearly focused on mind strikes. The enemy retaliated with their own volley of arrows, and it soon became evident which side had the better archers. The Delani’s accuracy was uncanny, striking between chinks in armor, sometimes piercing through eye slits on helms. The Delani didn’t make any move to advance, seemingly content to let the Manicoti come to them while knocking them down with wave after wave of arrows.

“Halls of Arkadia,” he whispered. “They’re going to slaughter us.”

“Settle down, kid,” Jerem, a tan-skinned man in his early twenties, said. He was one of the reserve Mind Scythes. Marce, his petite companion, stood at his shoulder, watching the battle with keen eyes the color of storm clouds.

“We ain’t fresh outta the field,” Jerem continued, voice far too relaxed. “Battle’s ain’t ever gonna look pretty. Don’t you worry, we know what we’re doing.”

This did nothing to relax Jistan. Even if the Manicoti somehow managed to escape this mess, many people would die in the process. Hundreds seemed to have already been massacred, with more falling at every second. He couldn’t make out details, but he could see enough to know it wasn’t going well for his side.

At that moment, the Mind Scythes arrived. They appeared as if from thin air, coming at the Delani from slightly behind and to both sides. This shoved the enemy forward, forcing some of them out of the tree cover.

The Mind Scythes fought like the Soldiers of Arkadia. They sliced, jabbed, and dodged, all the while keeping a stream of mental attacks that sent Delani stumbling into each other or falling to their knees in pain.

Jistan frowned, studying the battle more closely. Something was wrong, although it took him a few moments to figure out what.

“How do the Delani do that?” he breathed, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him. He squinted, sure he had to be mistaken. Both sides fell from the blows of swords or strikes of cudgels, but the Delani use of Will seemed…odd. While the Manicoti mind attacks sometimes caused physical reactions from the Delani-a missed step or stumble, a cry of pain-the Delani seemed to be able to shove their opponents backwards with mental strikes, physically pushing them away. But Will couldn’t do that. Even Highness Arellia couldn’t use Will to move people, not directly at least.

Then something even more strange happened. As one Manicoti moved to strike an overhand blow at a Delani, the figure raised a hand up as if to protect their face. In that instant, something seemed to explode from the Delani’s hand, striking the Manicoti in the chest. It was too distant to be sure, but it looked like the man’s breastplate melted* partially.

That had not been Will. Jistan was sure of it. He opened his mouth to ask what in Arkadia’s Flames was going on, but paused as something else caught his eye. By now, the Delani had been forced closer to his position and the sun had risen so that he could see them much better. And he realized, with a sudden, surreal certainty, that the Delani were not human.

They had hair that gleamed metallically, pure white, silver, gold, or black. Some had gleaming bronze skin, others had skin that looked almost translucent and caught the sunlight like the surface of crystal. They were all very tall, but not broad. They wore no armor, just some sort of flowing material that billowed about them, not enough to get in the way of their movements but enough to make them disorienting to watch.

“Wraiths of Flame,” he whispered.

Jerem put a hand on his shoulder. “Arellia might be crazy,” the young man said softly, “but maybe she has a point in not telling the new recruits the whole story. I mean, I know I wouldn’t have believed it. Not without seeing it with my own two eyes.”

“What are they?” Jistan asked, voice barely above a whisper. “And…are they shooting fire* from their hands?”

“Not just fire,” Jerem replied. “Other things to. Far as we can tell, they use energy from around them-heat, wind, the like-and direct it towards their targets. As for what they are…no one knows.”

Jistan breathed out. “And this is what we’re fighting?”

“C’mon now,” Jerem said, smiling. “Don’t forget, we have a couple tricks up our own sleeves. They can’t use Will, after all.”

Jistan perked up. “Really?”

“Not a lick.”

That actually did make him feel a little better. A tiny bit. Very small amount.

You wanted competition, he thought wryly. Well, you go it.

*

She continues to work her wrists free from their tight bonds. The rope has long ago shredded into her skin, making a bloody mess behind her back. But her masters aren’t watching her, and they won’t care if she has bloody wrists. They don’t let her near food anyway.

If she can work the ropes just a little bit looser, she should be able to pull her hands free. The rope burns against her raw and broken flesh, but she cannot afford to stop now.

It takes an excruciatingly long time. Her masters eat and drink and ignore her. Her hands, bloody and burning, are finally free.

They are close to the border. Close to land uncharted by her masters. She will be lost, but so will they.

It is dark. They aren’t looking. She moves silently into the night. Once she is far enough away that she can no longer see them clearly, she runs. She is weak from malnourishment and days of brutal punishment and harsh labor. Her only hope is to get far away before they realize she is gone.

Behind her, she hears shouting.

She isn’t going to be fast enough.