The Wanderer's Quest

The Wanderer's Quest.

By Rev Enicar

Chapter 1: The Mark Of The Damned

A wisp of wind stirred his hair, making his fingers tighten on the hilt of the knife that never left his person, never when he was awake, and certainly never when he slept. It did not wake him, but made his sleep, already restless, a little more chaotic.

He would claim he did not remember the time of before, that he lived in the now only, the now without apparent sense nor purpose.

But his mind tormented him when he could not defend himself, reminding him of all that had been, all that had been lost.

His eyes revved up under his lids as the images forced themselves on his diminished conscience: he could see his first memories, when the world had seemed huge and full of promise, when people so far away appeared, their smiling faces and voices coming from a tiny box held in the hand.

He remembered when this big world turned small, when the people hid their smiles under white or multicolored masks, when demanding a hug seemed out of place and forbidden... when the dying started.Then the world didn't seem so big anymore. Confined between four walls, time seemed to stop, to seem eternal, a twilight of uncertainty he felt mostly through his parents' anxiety, and the restrictions to his life that seemed pointless and superfluous.

Until it became horribly real. Talk of friends gone forever, that near unbearable tension in the air, fear running rampant in the streets until it seemed as though it could be felt and seen, a living entity, chasing all those who dared defy the orders set by the government.

The point of no return: he recalled it with unbearable clarity in his state of restless slumber. His father had found him shedding tears after learning one of his friends had died from the pandemic plague, and he had looked at him straight in the eyes.

"We do not know what God's plan is for us. It is not for us to know, my son. But we must believe, with all our hearts, that whatever happens, does for a reason. Especially in darkness... our duty is to believe."That was the moment it became clear to him: only belief could carry them through this ordeal, and true belief would reveal those who were worthy from those who were not.

Events that had taken years to unfold flashed before his eyes in instants; surviving the worst of the plague, managing to maintain a level of civilization where all those around turned back to a more primitive state, so much so that their city became known as The Beacon, the Light in the darkness of post-civilization.

But such success always attracted the attention of the wrong people, always brought in the leeches and those desperate to profit and not build... and soon all able-bodied men had to defend their Citadel against all form of attacks.

For a long time, it did seem that everything happened for a reason. Good and bad, it seemed that if you accepted and believed, the world made sense.

Until the Horde came.The Horde lay siege to their city, blocking all escape routes, attacking relentlessly, with no regard for the lives lost in the damned assaults. It seemed their bloodlust and drive to kill was infinite, unstoppable, inexplicable.

The Horde's leader sent his men to their deaths without remorse, only seeking to weaken his enemy, destroy the morale and see his plan through.

It was a mystery to the boy that had become a man , when he lay on his knees, watching his city being sacked to ruins, the women and children screaming in terror as the Horde's soldiers rampage with the utmost savagery, how their belief could have failed them.

He expected nothing other than death from the Horde's warriors, he wanted nothing other than death when he heard his wife screaming, his son wailing... and then silence.

He was wounded, bleeding, perhaps dying already when he was taken, pushed and prodded, to the Horde's commander.All the men thus captured were thrown on their knees in front of the Horde's commander, a tall man shrouded by a veil that was so common in the Outer Lands, in fear that the virus would return and destroy what was left of humanity.

The commander looked at them each in turn, spitefully and scornfully, before speaking in a low guttural tone.

"You have a chance, one, to survive. You have proven your worth as soldiers. Join us... or die. "

" There is no escape, you are beaten, your city is lost. Those who refuse will be used as slaves, unto death, branded... with the Mark of the Damned. " the Commander continued, letting the weight of his words sink in.

There was no escape, no possible reprieve, no miracle. They were condemned. Death, or death. Physical death, or the death of every moral principle they had ever held dear.

Only a handful of the men did not surrender to the commander's wishes. The rest received their brand; one deep cut, crescent-shaped, on the left cheek, one burn mark in the form of an arrow, crossing over the crescent, to complete the Mark.

He bore his without a whisper of complaint.

He only wished to collapse and be left to die of exposure as they were pushed and prodded out of the city, bound to each other by heavy , rusted over chains. But the pain was not yet over.

The procession came to an abrupt halt just out of the city; they had a perfect view of the ramparts that had once stood proud, invincible or so it had seemed at the time.

Shouts, whimpers, sobs; their attention was drawn upwards, where the Elders of the City were being pushed forward, to the edge of the walls, by their own sons, those who had given in to the Horde's commander.

The commander was there himself, looking down at his prisoners, his slaves, his new fledgling soldiers

"No escape. No reprieve. The Horde is unstoppable!!!!!!!"

A whimper of pain and anguish did escape his lips as he saw his parents fall to their deaths.A flutter drew him from his dream and the knife flew in his hand, ready to find a target and end a life.

Just a small desert Wheatear, looking for food, nothing to worry about. He barely relaxed; the bird's nervous manners reminded him of himself.

Always on the look-out for danger, always on the edge of death, living day by day, night by night. Was there true purpose in that existence?

To have such thoughts would cause him a headache he could not afford. The day was coming to an end, the heat of the desert replaced by the brisk coldness of night.

Time to get moving. The might was not necessarily safer than the day, but the shadows made it easier to pass unnoticed. And that meant a better chance to stay alive for yet another day.

He watched dusk becoming dark, then swirled with the Apocalypse Lights, the night hues that meant death to the unwary when they came down on the Earth with gray ashes. The way of the world now. Time to get moving.

Night would not last forever.He knew the paths by heart it would seem, where to go, what dangers lurked in the seemingly open, desertic barrenland. Nothing was ever what it seemed. More people than could be expected dwelled in the shadows.

For although the Horde governed the world with an iron fist of terror, many still survived in the fringes, their skills needed to continue the trade of more advanced civilization.

The old cities had been deserted for the most part, for fear that the terrible plague that had swept the Earth still dwelled there. But the fringes' people overcame that fear to scavenge the cities for spare parts needed to repair automobiles or other systems, search for bullets and blades that could be sold to the Horde's agents, thus earning their nicknames of "Scavengers".

And those people were always on the look-out for the big score... like someone bearing the mark, someone who should not have been free but was.

His face was always shrouded by a mask and a hood; one could never be too careful. No one could know he was still alive, or that life would not remain his for very long.Nonetheless, he too had to survive. He hunted what he could to eat but animals did not thrive as much as could have been expected in this post-apocalyptic world.

The Horde kept a tight grip on all food production, terrorizing the farmers to ensure that all their yields would be given to their agents and those alone.

The black market existed but he needed something to trade for whatever scraps he could get. And that meant venturing in the crumbling cities himself.

The proud emblems of the past, now decrepit and derelict, a danger to all those who dared defy the unspoken rule; to let the past where it was and focus on the future only.

He studied his 'prey' carefully; he had been observing the old city for many days, trying to figure out how many scavengers dwelled inside.

They were as quick as mice, disappearing in the night, eyes always watching. This was their domain, he was the intruder. No matter the old fear of the disease, the Scavengers was what he really had to watch out for.

Despite his jaded demeanor and glum outlook on life in general, as he slipped into the city, he felt the thrill, the rush of adrenaline; one could not escape it.

The countdown was on; he gave himself three turns of his hourglass before having to leave. The Scavengers would not stay blind to his presence much longer than that... if he was really lucky.Nothing was more unnerving than being in enemy territory, trapped inside the hood of a car, sweating and swearing under one's breath as one tried to wedge a carburetor out while making the least noise possible.

Rust had made the screws impossible to turn, they had to be sawed or broken off, which meant an insane amount of noise he could not afford. But he could not leave the doomed city empty-handed either.

There is a kind of awareness, a sixth sense of sorts, when you are in danger, when you are where you are not welcome and from which you should run away from at full speed.

You can start feeling when you are not welcome anymore, when you are running out of luck, when you have been discovered, or you will be. He knew he should have run, left the carburetor where it was, come back another day. But his client was getting ompatient, uncaring of the danger he was exposing his 'tool' to with his haste to get the sought after part.

His three hours were not up... but his time was.

A soft shuffle, scrapings of a metallic nature; he did not panic, he breathed in deeply, and emerged from the car to face his opponents.

Four of them, shrouded in shadows, circling around him like predators. They were silent and solemn, they were in the right, protecting their territory. He was fair game.If not, he hoped his opponents were prepared to meet their Maker.

He could see the telltale signs of guns, pistols, on the Scavengers' bodies, but he knew they would use their blades, their swords. Bullets were rare, scarce, reserved for the Horde, and so noisy.

There were those who revered the old cities, and all feared them; but the unspoken rule respected by all was that silence was to be observed. Out of respect for the giants of the past, out of fear of bringing back the calamities that had toppled the world... those who lived in the old citadels lived and died in silence.

They attacked swiftly, sure of themselves, four against one, how could this go in any other way than the obvious, than what was expected?

They had no idea who they were up against.

All his training as a Citadel soldier, all the hardships he had suffered through as the Horde's slave, surviving to this point in his life made him a redoubtable opponent.

When attacking a lone target, coordination was necessary to ensure a smooth, successful attack. Blunt, brute force only resulted in confusion and someone who did not let himself be impressed by the odds in his disfavor, someone who neither feared death nor welcomed it, could use this to his advantage.

And so the fight began.The swordsmanship wasn't exactly important, the will to triumph was what won or lost an engagement. That and the ability to recognize the others' weaknesses, the coolheadedness necessary to rake in that advantage at the opportune moment. The first rule of any fight: never lose sight of the bigger picture.

He ducked and dodged the first strike and quickly identified the best fighter, the one he had to get rid of first to gain the upper hand in the battle, to strike fear in the others' hearts.

For fear won battles much faster than skill alone.

He had the speed and knowhow and slipped between two of the Scavengers to strike directly at the best swordsman.

But he was parried because he was faced with the best warrior. Speed was his best defense and while the Scavenger turned to attack, he ducked and struck at one of the fools scrambling to get to him.

A lucky hit, a masterful swordsplay: he was showered with blood as the corpse collapsed on the ground, convulsing as its life force left the body. And when he turned around to face his opponents again, he saw that glint in their eyes. Fear, unbridled. They were not dealing with the usual malnourished thieves. They were faced with a real threat to their lives.

He didn't give them the time to adapt. Now was his chance, his one opportunity to turn the battle to his advantage. He was used to those situations, but the human factor was always a wild card. Anyone could turn the tide, a slip, a fall, one miscalculated step, and the life he did not care for would be over.

Unless theirs was called to the executioners' block first.

His blade struck an arm, slicing through flesh, bringing blood and a muffled cry of pain to his enemy's lips. They wanted to regroup and think of another attack strategy but he didn't give them the time. He could not afford it.

His thrust his sword through a man's back, uncaring of the unsportsmanship of that action; there was no honor among thieves, among enemies, just the bitter struggle of survival.

The best warrior attacked at that moment, just as his sword was stuck in the other's body; he managed to duck but the blade nicked his hood and face mask, making it fall on his shoulder.

There was a moment of stupor as the Scavenger recognized the mark and sputtered in astonishment: "The Damned! "

He felt the panic himself. Recognized, branded, he could see the greed in the man's eyes even as he slit his throat. Panting hard, he turned to his last opponent, who of course had taken the opportunity to run, fueled by the thought of untold rewards.

This shameful, hateful brand that made him a target as soon as it was unveiled. The mark of slavery and defeat, the mark of the damned. And damned he would remain.

He could feel a thousand eyes on him, somehow the word was given. And the hunt was on.