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Authors: A. R. Kahler
Tags: Martyr
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closed the gate behind them. Tenn caught Jarrett taking a deep, steadying breath before he led them deeper into the heart of one of humanityâs last semblances of civilization.
In stark contrast to outside, the town within the strongholdâs walls was packed and thriving. And disgusting. Laundry stretched across the streets on useless power lines, the houses cramped and the stench of humanity overpowering. People milled about wearing whatever they retained from their old livesâtattered suits and dresses, jeans and T-shirts and sweaters. Carts and wagons lined the sidewalks, laden with rotted fruit and bread and other pitiful crops. It looked like a Renaissance Faire crammed into a city street, only no one here was laughing or getting drunk. And there was a hell of a lot more shit in the gutters.
Years ago, Tenn would have expected a heroâs welcome, but no one looked them in the eye. They all kept their eyes down and skittered to the side like the mice theyâd become. It was evident in the hunched backs, the nervous twitchesâthe Resurrection had broken them. It made Tennâs blood boil. These people knew what Tenn and his companions wereâthe black coats, the weary faces, the battle scarsâbut that didnât grant them any friendliness. To the populace, the Hunters werenât necessarily saviors. Hunters used magic, and everyone knew that magic was the reason the cities had fallen.
It didnât matter that heâd just watched a dozen men and women die to protect these people.
To the residents of this and every other town, the protectors were barely better than the beasts outside.
They trudged down the street, skirting vendors selling the last of the seasonâs crops and children playing in the gutters. Filth piled on every corner. There was a city council designed to take care of things like thisâsanitation, food management, all of thatâso the Hunters could do what they did bestâdefend. In theory. In practice, without the hope of things getting better, no one really gave a shit. Somehow, even that was blamed on the Huntersâ Guild. And its leader, Cassandra.
Tenn gritted his teeth before they rounded the final corner leading to the guild headquarters. He knew what they were going to find before the mob even came into view.
Caius stood on his usual pedestal in the center of the street, conveniently in front of the only entrance to the guild. The building loomed up behind him like a reinforced fitness centerâwhich was, in truth, precisely what it was. Caius was in his late forties with greying hair, a potbelly, and a venomous tongue. He wore a faded three-piece suit with patches on the elbows, his messy hair unsuccessfully slicked back with grease. Despite his ragged appearance, he still had a crowd. They hovered around him, his sheep, his starving cattle. Tenn was surprised heâd never caught them moo-ing.
Whatever rant or sermon Caius had been on cut short when they rounded the corner. He sneered over at them, causing more than one head to turn. Tenn clenched his teeth harder and shoved his hands in his pockets. He didnât know how the others managed to stay calm around the man. He didnât trust himself to speak. Hunters were expressly forbidden from killing the innocents.
âSo the child army returns,â Caius said. He had the voice of a man who used to smoke a pack or twelve a day. The child armyâ thatâs what they were to these people. It wasnât Tennâs fault most of the elderly had been killed off, that only young teens could successfully be attuned to the Spheres and fight back. It wasnât his fault, but like so many things, no one really cared about that. âHow many have we lost today, friends? How many souls have you handed over to Satan?â
âIgnore him,â Jarrett whispered. He took Tennâs arm and guided them around the crowd. Small picket signs had been thrust into the grass:
In stark contrast to outside, the town within the strongholdâs walls was packed and thriving. And disgusting. Laundry stretched across the streets on useless power lines, the houses cramped and the stench of humanity overpowering. People milled about wearing whatever they retained from their old livesâtattered suits and dresses, jeans and T-shirts and sweaters. Carts and wagons lined the sidewalks, laden with rotted fruit and bread and other pitiful crops. It looked like a Renaissance Faire crammed into a city street, only no one here was laughing or getting drunk. And there was a hell of a lot more shit in the gutters.
Years ago, Tenn would have expected a heroâs welcome, but no one looked them in the eye. They all kept their eyes down and skittered to the side like the mice theyâd become. It was evident in the hunched backs, the nervous twitchesâthe Resurrection had broken them. It made Tennâs blood boil. These people knew what Tenn and his companions wereâthe black coats, the weary faces, the battle scarsâbut that didnât grant them any friendliness. To the populace, the Hunters werenât necessarily saviors. Hunters used magic, and everyone knew that magic was the reason the cities had fallen.
It didnât matter that heâd just watched a dozen men and women die to protect these people.
To the residents of this and every other town, the protectors were barely better than the beasts outside.
They trudged down the street, skirting vendors selling the last of the seasonâs crops and children playing in the gutters. Filth piled on every corner. There was a city council designed to take care of things like thisâsanitation, food management, all of thatâso the Hunters could do what they did bestâdefend. In theory. In practice, without the hope of things getting better, no one really gave a shit. Somehow, even that was blamed on the Huntersâ Guild. And its leader, Cassandra.
Tenn gritted his teeth before they rounded the final corner leading to the guild headquarters. He knew what they were going to find before the mob even came into view.
Caius stood on his usual pedestal in the center of the street, conveniently in front of the only entrance to the guild. The building loomed up behind him like a reinforced fitness centerâwhich was, in truth, precisely what it was. Caius was in his late forties with greying hair, a potbelly, and a venomous tongue. He wore a faded three-piece suit with patches on the elbows, his messy hair unsuccessfully slicked back with grease. Despite his ragged appearance, he still had a crowd. They hovered around him, his sheep, his starving cattle. Tenn was surprised heâd never caught them moo-ing.
Whatever rant or sermon Caius had been on cut short when they rounded the corner. He sneered over at them, causing more than one head to turn. Tenn clenched his teeth harder and shoved his hands in his pockets. He didnât know how the others managed to stay calm around the man. He didnât trust himself to speak. Hunters were expressly forbidden from killing the innocents.
âSo the child army returns,â Caius said. He had the voice of a man who used to smoke a pack or twelve a day. The child armyâ thatâs what they were to these people. It wasnât Tennâs fault most of the elderly had been killed off, that only young teens could successfully be attuned to the Spheres and fight back. It wasnât his fault, but like so many things, no one really cared about that. âHow many have we lost today, friends? How many souls have you handed over to Satan?â
âIgnore him,â Jarrett whispered. He took Tennâs arm and guided them around the crowd. Small picket signs had been thrust into the grass:
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