Krymzyn (The Journals of Krymzyn Book 1) (3 page)

She slips the tip of her spear from the skull of a dead creature at her feet. Streams of black blood mixed with rain drip to the grass below. Veins that once bulged from the muscular body are now empty, fading lines of charcoal against pale, white skin. Despite being almost twice her size, the Murkovin had little defense against her wrath.

The girl steps over the body, rain spattering on her head, and walks to the other two corpses in the field. She ignores the second Murkovin but stops over the body of her Mentor, her guide in the ways of her purpose. She stares at the fading scarlet in his short black hair, wondering how one so experienced, so strong, could have been taken by surprise.

She wasn’t shown a vision of her Mentor’s death, or she never would have left his side. While spending Communal with the children, she’d sensed that Darkness was near. She’d traveled to their usual meeting place, but he’d never arrived.

Sounds of clashing steel had steered her to the battle. Two creatures from the Barrens had scaled the walls and secretly entered the Delta. Her Mentor had already been slain when she reached him, the two Murkovin still lurking nearby. A fury had ignited inside the girl, was unleashed upon the intruders, and they’d quickly met death at the tip of her spear.

She looks up to the sky as the churning clouds slow, the rain gradually stops, and fresh beams of light sever the edges of the clouds. Darkness has departed.

“Watchers will remove the Murkovin bodies,” a woman, the tallest of the Disciples, says from behind her. “I’ll summon a Traveler to take your Mentor’s body to the Bed of Light.”

“No,” the girl objects. She lowers her eyes to the corpse of her Mentor. “I’ll take him to the Mount.”

“You know that isn’t the duty of a Hunter,” the Disciple reprimands.

The girl turns to face the woman, slightly hunches her shoulders, and bows her head in a show of respect. When she speaks, her voice is quiet but firm with conviction.

“
I’ll
take his body to the Bed of Light.”

She looks up into the Disciple’s eyes. The two silently stare at one another.

“A Traveler will accompany you,” the Disciple finally responds. “No one should cross the Barrens alone. Not even you.”

“Thank you,” the girl humbly replies.

The Disciple kneels, sinks the fingertips of one hand into the black dirt beneath the grass, and whispers a name before standing again. She takes a step forward, towering over the girl.

“Even with all your gifts,” the Disciple says quietly, “you can’t blame yourself for events out of your control.”

“I know I shouldn’t blame myself,” the girl answers. “If I’d been shown his death before it occurred, I could have protected him, but I wasn’t shown. I don’t understand why I’m shown some things and not others.”

“The things you’re shown, the purposes of the children or when Darkness is near, are events you can’t alter. If a path has already been defined, you won’t be able to change it.”

“It’s difficult to accept when I know I could have saved him.”

“You weren’t meant to save him,” the Disciple replies. “You were meant to learn from him while he was alive. With his death, you’ll no longer be an Apprentice. Even though you’re still young, you’re now asked to fulfill your purpose as a Hunter of Krymzyn.”

“I’m honored to serve our balance,” the girl says, bowing her head solemnly.

The Disciple silently admires the girl standing in front of her, realizing how quickly she’s maturing into a young woman. Despite the girl’s recent growth, she’s still younger than any before her to end an Apprenticeship. Well aware of the girl’s extraordinary abilities since they were first displayed as a small child, the Disciple knows how difficult it must be for the girl to understand her gifts.

“Why you’re sometimes shown the future,” the Disciple says, “feel the things you feel, and are able to do all you can, none of us can explain. I know it’s confusing to you, but in time, I believe it will make sense.”

“Do you remember my Ritual of Purpose?” the girl asks.

“Of course. I thought a first would occur and more than one color might be revealed in your hair.”

“During Communal after my Ritual, a Teller arrived, but on the Empty Hill, not the Telling Hill.”

“I remember,” the Disciple says. “I was told of his arrival, although there were many anomalies associated with his visit.”

“I know I shouldn’t have approached him, but I couldn’t resist my curiosity. He was confused and didn’t understand why he was here. When we spoke, I could feel what was inside him. Not only what he felt being in our world, but what he felt in his. The types of feelings I sensed in him are the same things I feel all the time now, emotions that don’t exist here in others.”

“Did you find it helpful to be aware of those emotions in another?” the Disciple asks.

The girl slides the tip of her spear across the grass at her feet, wiping black Murkovin blood from the steel. “It helped me understand them and control them. Some of the emotions I feel are extreme, like anger as severe as what the Murkovin must feel. Those are difficult to accept.”

The Disciple ponders the girl’s words for several moments before answering. “Much of your journey is one that, I fear, must be traveled alone. You’ll gain understanding as you travel your path. Although I may not fully grasp all that’s inside you, I’ll always try to provide what insight I can.”

“Thank you,” the girl sincerely replies. “The things I feel will never interfere with fulfilling my purpose to Krymzyn.”

“Your honor is never in question,” the Disciple says. “We all know you give every part of your life to protect what’s sacred to us in a way no one else can.”

Both of their heads turn towards beams of light gliding over a nearby hilltop. The brilliant rays recede into the shape of a man. Tall and slim with cobalt blue highlights in his wavy black hair, the Traveler sprints across the meadow. With his spear in one hand, he coasts to a stop in front of the Disciple.

“Please accompany her to the Mount,” the Disciple says. “She’ll take her Mentor’s body to the Bed of Light.”

With a somber expression, the Traveler surveys the three corpses on the ground. When he looks to the girl, his eyes fill with respect.

“It will be my honor,” he replies.

The girl hands her spear to the Traveler, leans down, and lifts the body of her Mentor from the ground. Without effort, almost no strain in her muscles, she gently throws the corpse over her shoulder as though he were nothing more than a small child.

“Have a safe journey,” the Disciple says.

The girl and the Traveler both bow to the woman before running to the east. Even with the weight of the body over her shoulder, the girl races ahead of the Traveler as they cross the first meadow. After brief streams of light over rolling crimson hills, the two arrive at the eastern wall of the Delta and slow to a walk.

A Watcher, strands of bright green against his black hair, descends a steel ladder attached to an enormous black marble wall. When he reaches the ground, the man nods to the girl and the Traveler. He walks to the arched metallic doors in the wall, releases large, steel bolts that secure them, and swings one door open. The sound of raging water bursts through the gate.

The Traveler steps to a rack of soft black boots beside the wall. He slips one pair onto his bare feet before handing another pair to the girl. She gently lays the body of her Mentor on the ground while the Watcher bows his head to the corpse. After sliding the boots on her feet and tightly tying the straps around her ankles, she lifts the dead body onto her shoulder again.

The Traveler and the girl pass through the gate, stepping onto a steel bridge that spans the immense river. The colorless Barrens stretch out in front of them on the far side. Leading to the Mount of Krymzyn in the distance, a narrow road weaves through the wasteland.

The girl looks over her shoulder at the top of the wall where a female Watcher stands with her Apprentice. The Apprentice glares at the girl with anger in his eyes, just as he did during her Ritual of Purpose long ago.

He must be wondering why she would transport the body of her Mentor to the Mount instead of a Traveler, the girl concludes. She ignores his stare by turning away and walking across the bridge, but she senses the intensity of his eyes stinging her back.

As the girl climbs the arc in the center of the bridge, the sound of churning rapids below, she looks down the violent
river. Soaring silvery blue waves rise high in the air and crash down on the turbulent flow. She stops walking, her attention captured by a hulking slab of black rock in the middle of the river—the one she recognizes from her Vision of the Future.

When I spoke to him on the Empty Hill long ago, he was much younger than in my Vision of the Future, but there’s no doubt it’s the same face. When we talked, his blue eyes were brave even though he was in a world he didn’t know. His eyes filled with wonder at all around him, were intelligent and kind. It was odd that he arrived on the Empty Hill just as I passed by, not the Telling Hill as he should have.

The last time I slept, I saw him in my dream. He looked the same age as I am now, but not yet as mature as he was in my Vision of the Future. In my dream, he again stood on the Empty Hill, but Darkness surrounded him. Tellers are never here during Darkness, yet Darkness fell the first time he was here, as well as in my dream.

That dream must have been a warning. Now that I’m no longer an Apprentice, I’ll always hunt near the Empty Hill. He won’t know how to protect himself when he arrives during Darkness.

To get a used car for Christmas my junior year of high school, I had to make a deal with my parents. I agreed to help drive my little sister to and from school, which I didn’t mind. My Christmas present to them was the family portrait I’d secretly been painting for many months. A tranquil sunset behind rolling aqua waves was the background. In the foreground, Mom and Dad stood on the beach with Ally and me crouching on the sand at their sides.

Blowing in the ocean breeze, my mom’s sandy brown hair was streaked with summer blond in the painting. Her round face with big, chocolate brown eyes and smiling cheeks expressed the serenity we always felt on family days at the beach. My dad, tall and lean, with wavy dark brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a long, straight nose on his slender face, stood with one arm around my mom’s waist.

Studying the finished oil on canvas, I debated about a little more detail in the curl of the wave behind us. I also couldn’t help but wonder if it was only in my perception that Ally looked almost exactly like my mom and I looked exactly like my dad or if that’s how everyone saw us.

After I turned seventeen in January, track practice began. I was training to run the mile during the upcoming spring season. Ally played for the freshmen soccer team, and fortunately our practices ended at the same time every day.

She sat beside me in the front seat as we drove home on a busy four-lane boulevard through Sherman Oaks. I had a slight headache from the mixture of a strenuous track workout and battling heavy traffic during the drive.

The throbbing in my head suddenly exploded into greater pain than any I’d felt in many years. I immediately knew this headache hadn’t been caused by tension or overexertion at track practice. The tremors were spreading way too fast through my skull, exactly like the headaches from five years earlier.

My hands began to tremble and cramped out of my control around the steering wheel. When halos of red from the brake lights in front of us blinded me, I slammed my foot on the brake pedal, pushed with all my might, and heard the loud screech of rubber against asphalt.

“Chase!” my sister screamed from far away.

*             *             *

“Murkovin!” a roaring male voice echoes through the hills.

Rain plummets from the sky, blackened storm clouds churn in place, and my eyes try to adjust to Darkness. I spin to the shout behind me, immediately knowing I’m on the same hill as I’d been when I was twelve. There’s not a doubt in my mind.

Needles race up my spine when I see the shirtless creature crouched at the base of the hill. Tall with black veins bulging from ghostly white skin, the beast of a man scans the terrain. Wearing only black leathery pants, firm ridges of muscle lining his stomach and chest, he wildly swings a metal spear in one hand.

His head snaps to me. Long black hair twined with white whips across his face while his empty hand slashes the air in front of him. When his eyes touch mine, shadowy sockets flare blood red. The brute charges up the hill at me.

I lurch the other way and sprint into the meadow below. A torrent of rain slams against my skin as deafening creaks pierce the air. I see the flailing tree in front of me and try to stop, but my bare feet slip across the slick wet grass.

A glowing red limb lashes at me, slams into my chest, and hurls me to the ground. As the branch smashes into me again, I jerk my hands up in defense. Blood instantly spurts from gashes torn into my face, neck, and arms. Rolling across the grass, I frantically try to get out of its reach.

When I stop a few feet away, landing flat on my back, I stare straight up. A monstrous bough high above flexes into a fisted hand. I try to jump to my feet but a blur scoops me from the ground. As we speed away from the tree, silky wisps of black and scarlet brush across my face. A thunderous slam vibrates from behind us, the wooden fist pounding into the ground where, a moment earlier, my body would have been.

Into the valley we race until we’re outside the range of groping limbs. After we slide to a stop, I’m gently set on the grass. I look up to see the girl I met when I was twelve standing over me—the girl called Sash.

Her thin arms are barbed with muscular detail as she tightly grasps her spear. Metallic points, steel spikes sticking out the top of a pack slung over her shoulder, flash from behind her head. She peers down at me through radiant amber eyes.

“Are you injured?” she growls, silver raindrops beading down her hair.

“A few cuts and bruises,” I answer. “I’ll be fine.”

Her head jumps up and mine follows. On top of the hill where I stood, a man in the black clothing of Krymzyn, vibrant green hair glittering in the dark, battles the creature. Their steel spears clash before the green-haired man twists away. With a sudden lunge, he plunges the tip of his weapon into the muscular, white chest. A wail of agony tears through the hills while black blood gushes from the wound.

A woman leaps from behind the hill, trails of neon green behind her head and a steel point leading her soar. Rays of light burst around the shaft as her spear rams through the creature’s skull. The vile specter collapses to the ground.

“Are there more?” Sash screams at them.

“Only this one!” the man yells back.

“Stay here,” Sash says calmly, her eyes returning to mine. “You’re safe now.”

I’m scared, shocked, fascinated . . . a barrage of emotions race through me. I don’t feel any physical effects from the seizure I know I’m in the middle of back on Earth, but I honestly can’t assess my feelings at being here. Except one overwhelming reaction—I’m finally amazed.

Sash charges through the rain towards the tree. Branches split the air around her as she sails off the ground. I sit up to watch, instantly hypnotized by her spectacular acrobatics.

A limb sweeps harmlessly below her feet. With the long spear grasped tightly in both her hands, she blocks another branch at the apex of her leap. She lands, tucks into a roll under one more swinging limb, and finally launches off the grass to the trunk. Flexed arms of wood whip inward but have to stop as cracking sounds fill the meadow. Sash kneels safely by the base of the tree, the branches unable to reach her.

She pops a hand behind her head, snatches one of the short spikes from the pack on her back, and forcefully stabs it into the tree. Twisting the metal point deep inside the bark, she locks the three-foot-long spike into the trunk. In a flurry of motion, Sash stabs and twists again and again until all seven metallic stakes are anchored into the wood. Minutes pass while she protects the spikes from the limbs overhead, amber ferocity constantly burning in her eyes.

A hint of orange pares the edges of the clouds, and the rainfall thins. The limbs of the tree slowly reach outward, some up to the sky, others drooping to the ground with their tips digging into the turf. The swirling clouds slow until idle masses of dark gray return. Once the rain stops falling and it’s fully light, the tree remains perfectly still.

Sash slowly removes one stake from the bark, twists the steel tip, and slips it into the cylinder on her back. She gently leans her face to the trunk, resting her forehead on the exact spot the spike punctured the tree. Both of her hands reach outward and she presses her palms to the bark. As seconds pass, she stands in reverence to the tree.

One by one, she removes the spikes. Each time she does, she repeats the moment of silence with her hands and forehead pressed to the bark. When the last metal stake is returned to her pack, Sash crosses the meadow to me.

She’s grown taller—maybe five foot six now—slender and toned. Her face is my age with no lines or blemishes on her smooth, pale skin. Her fiery amber eyes, infinite black pupils, and rich burgundy lips look ageless and wise, like she’s seventeen and twenty-seven and ninety-seven.

I try to stand but wince from a twinge of pain in my back. Crouching on my knees, I glance at my arms. Water may bead and run off me in Krymzyn, but my blood still scabs and stains my skin. I finally rise to my feet with a grimace.

“I’m sorry if the tree injured you,” Sash says when she reaches me. “For your own safety, never be in reach of the branches.”

“Thank you for helping me,” I say. “I really appreciate it. You’re a lot stronger than you look.”

Talk about an understatement. I’m in absolute awe of the speed, strength, and agility I just witnessed from Sash. It was more astounding than any special effects in a movie I’ve seen or any character in a video game I’ve played.

“I’m honored to provide aid to a visitor of Krymzyn,” she humbly replies.

The man and woman who killed the creature walk down the hill towards us. The man drags the corpse by the hair. Even though I’m almost six feet tall now, they’re both much taller than I am. A younger man walks by their side, also with black and green hair. Rugged and stocky, he looks no more than a year or two older than I am and he’s about my height. The three stop when they reach us, studying me intently.

“We’ll escort the Teller to the Disciples,” the woman says to Sash.

“No,” Sash replies. “I’ll attend to his needs. The Disciples will be busy because of the Murkovin.”

“Tellers should only meet with the Disciples,” the younger man hisses.

“He’s injured and covered in blood,” Sash says loudly, turning towards the young man.

“That’s not your responsibility,” he snarls.

“Balt!” the green-haired woman barks. “Never speak to another in that tone. She’s only trying to help a visitor.”

Sash doesn’t respond, instead staring at the young man with an intensity and ferocity I’ve never seen in any creature anywhere. Her muscles flex until they’re as tight as the band of a slingshot stretched almost to the breaking point, ready to release in an instant.

Even the eyes of the two older adults widen at the unbridled surge of energy that seems to surround her, the outrage flowing from her eyes. Balt tries to hold her glare but finally looks down at the ground.

“Sash,” the green-haired woman says flatly, “you need to maintain control.”

After another moment of tension, Sash relaxes her stance and turns to the woman. “I apologize,” she says, bowing her head slightly. “I’m upset by the intrusion of a Murkovin.”

Sash kneels to the ground, sinks her fingertips into the dirt beneath the grass, and whispers something. A few seconds later, she stands.

“Eval is aware of his presence,” Sash says in a soft voice. “I told her that after the Teller has healed, cleansed, and rested, I’ll take him to Sanctuary.”

“Of course,” the green-haired woman replies.

The three people with green hair nod farewell to Sash. As they walk away from us, the one named Balt looks over his shoulder. He fires a nasty glance at me, then at Sash, but quickly turns away. I lower my eyes to the muscular, hideous corpse being dragged behind the other man.

“What do you call that thing?” I ask.

“Murkovin,” Sash replies. “They dwell in the Barrens.”

“What was it trying to do?”

“It wanted sap from the sustaining tree,” Sash says with a hint of pain in her voice.

“Why sap?”

“Tree sap is our only sustenance in Krymzyn.”

“Is that why you stabbed those things in the tree?”

“The spikes fill with sap,” she replies, nodding.

“No offense, but why don’t you do that when the tree isn’t trying to kill you?” I ask.

“The sap only flows during Darkness, when the tree is aware,” she explains. “The tree only tries to protect itself.”

“That seems pretty
fucked
up to me.”

The tone of my voice fully reflects the intent of my statement, so she doesn’t bother to ask about the word that doesn’t translate. She narrows her eyes slightly and I can feel the teeming anger cast in my direction. For the second time in a few minutes, I sense the extraordinary power that resides inside her.

I suddenly wish I’d bitten my tongue. But strangely, it’s not from fear. After feeling so safe with her, I don’t ever want to upset or hurt her in any way.

“Follow me,” Sash says sharply. She spins to the valley and briskly walks away.