The Shade Clan

It had been only a few minutes when the hunters stopped and dropped the four that they had been caring within their shrouds. They were in a rather large camp with metal tents. “The Shaman is in the center tent, he will want to speak to each of you alone to see who will get our gift.” Gal’Or said, his shroud gone and a black shirt taking its place. “The hunters will lead you there and take you before him.”

“You still never answered my question.” Gordon said his thirst for the truth was visible on his face.

“That is because it is not my question to answer, but the Shaman’s.” Gal’Or said with a smile as he turned and walked away.

“First the one that hungers for the truth.” One of the hunters said while pointing to Gordon.

“Good, maybe I can get some answers then.” Gordon said as the hunter took his arm and led him off, when the other strangers began to fallow the hunters that where left grabbed them.

“You will go when you are called.” The three of them said in unison, all glaring at the three that they held farther driving the point home.

“Can I at least see a healer so I can get my arm fixed?” Mical asked, his voice holding the same strength that he had on the beach.

“Not yet ‘Walker’ the healer is with your fellow hunter you will see him in time.” The hunter that was holding Mical’s good arm spoke alone this time, there was something in its voice that made him fell the honor that these people felt for their elders. Then the hunters took off their shrouds, to the surprise of their three captives they had no silver markings like Gal’Or, instead they wore a gray gauntlet on their left arms. “We will stop you if you try to leave.” The hunter said holding his covered hand showing that the gauntlet had pointed fingers that looked as if there made to reach within flesh.

“Fine but I can’t hold back the blood much longer.” Mical said with a grin as the hunters let go of his friend and sister, and looked at him with wander in their eyes.

At that time Gordon had reached the center of the camp the hunter leading him had also shed his shroud; Gordon looked him over seeing similar markings on this one that he saw on Gal’Or. “What is with those markings?” he asked. The hunter paid him no mined as he placed his right hand on the face of the tent and pushed it open as if it where any cloth, and jerked his head in a silent call for Gordon to enter.

“Fine but only because I’m the one on trial here.” He barked at the hunter as he entered the tent. The hunter followed and the opening in the tent closed causing the inside to go dark. Gordon back stepped to where they came in at and tried to open the fold in the fabric but it stud firm and felt as solid as metal. He did not have time to react before the tent lit up, this caused Gordon to turn on his heal. In the center of the tent there was a statue of an old man made of gold. Gordon knew that there was a trick here somewhere; he stepped forward toward the gold figure in the center of the tent, moving at a slow and even pace wary of each and every detail looking for something out of place, but there was nothing that he could see.

“You are here at the call of Blue are you not?” an old voice asked, it echoed around the tent making it impossible to tell where it came from.

“Who are you and why do you hide from me?” Gordon called out his head darting in every direction looking for the source of the words. There was no one else there aside from the hunter and Gordon himself.

“You look with your eyes and you remain calm, but you do not have the scars to be the charmer. You did want to know what Gal’Or meant when he said that one of your band of outlanders will learn our ancient art of molding and moving the most stubborn of the blessings with the lights touch, it means that one of you will learn to fight, move, and even stand as we do. I am done with this one send me the next outlander well see if it is him.”

“As you wish Shaman.” The hunter said bowing his head. He then grabbed Gordon by the arm and led him away.

Gordon fought against the hunter’s grip to no avail, in a last ditch effort to find the truth Gordon yelled, “Who the hell are you!”

There was a screeching like two pieces of metal being ground together. He looked toward the sound and his jaw dropped. “This is who I am.” Said the old voice as Gordon was being drug out of the tent.

“What manner if of power do you have to freely move your own blood, how did you learn it?” Gal’Or was standing in front of Mical holding the injured man by the collar of his blood and dirt stained shirt.

“What do you mean power? No one can freely control their blood I only force it to move through different vanes.” Mical said as Gal’Or raised his free hand, it had been coated in metal and Mical was coated in bourses the shape of that hand, “I swear it’s the truth.” Mical said trying to avoid another hit from that club of a hand.

“Gal’Or stop! The Shaman dos not want them hurt. If you keep it up you will undergo the same right as that thief. Now who do we send to him next?” the hunter that had Gordon by the arm had stepped into the tent where the other three where being held.

“I’ll take this one, he has questions to answer.” Gal’Or said while dragging Mical forward. As he walked passed Gordon, Mical began to struggle. “What now Walker, do you want to try and get your thrall to save you or are you the thrall?”

“My name is Mical, his name is Gordon, and if you don’t have your man unhand him now I’ll break both of his arms.” Mical said through gritted teeth as he raised his good arm to grab the hunter that was dragging Gordon by the throat. This took both the men off guard, “I said let him go now!” Mical said fire in his eyes and his grip slowly getting tighter and the hunter began to try to free himself from the hand that was trying stop his breath from coming.

“How can this one still have so much fight in him?” the hunter asked as he tried to pry the fingers from his throat.

Gal’Or looked at the hunter and said, “He has used the blood arts of the lost clan, so if any one deserves to undergo that right it’s him….”

“I thought you would have learned on the beach that I’m not one to be underestimated.” Mical said while giving a big grin that gave him the look of a large snake glaring at its pray and the man that he was holding felt the rage that was in his heart and the man lost all the color in his face.

Gal’Or grabbed Mical’s arm and pulled it away from the hunter’s throat, “I don’t know how you learned the blood arts but you’re not going to enslave my people.”

“I would never enslave anyone!” Mical shouted as he was being drug out of the tent. He began to kick and thrash against Gal’Or as the man drug him away. “You son of a bitch, let me go.” Mical said as he was jerked about more and more with Gal’Or’s every step.

Mical did not stop struggling or cursing Gal’Or the entire way to the center of the camp, he was so intent on freeing himself he did not notice that they had made it to the Shaman’s tent. “Stand filth.” Gal’Or said with spite in his voice, he did not look at Mical while he insulted him; he opened the tent and pushed Mical inside.

“Why have you treated our gust with such hate child, what has he done to you?” an old voice asked.

“He is no gust of mine, had I known what he was I would have killed him and his slaves on sight.” Gal’Or said stomping his foot as he finished. His markings looked like they were moving like on the beach when he made the knife rise from his hand, but this time instead of a blade several whip like strands began to grow out of his back and started lashing out.

“If I may, this man that you’re calling child is accusing me of using something I’ve never heard of…”

“You are a blood molder and you will be killed for it filth.”Gal’Or said as the whips got longer.

“A blood molder you say then why has he not killed you yet, I see that he does have a large wound on his arm and you have a series of cuts on you thought.” The old voice said.

“He is trying to hide his power like that thief is!” Gal’Or shouted. The tendrils lashed out more furiously as his temper rose.

“Calm yourself child. Your daughter is not what you want her to be.” The old voice said followed by a hollow laugh.

“Your daughter is the one that you trying to have killed or whatever this rite dos to punish someone. How could you do that to your child?” Mical was rapidly advancing on Gal’Or, his eyes aflame with fury. When he got close one of the tendrils shot in his direction and tore through the flesh of his wounded arm causing a massive amount of blood to spill onto the ground. Mical wailed in pain and rage still advancing on the man that he now saw as a monster for betraying his family. His arm poring blood now, he stopped and looked at the new wound. “You think that killing me now will make you a better father?” Mical asked, his eyes closed and the blood streaming down his arm began to lesson and then it stopped altogether. Once this happened he began to walk toward his attacker again, this time at a much slower pace as to avoid those lashing resizers.

“Hold outlander,” the old voice called, “you just used a form of our art that has been forbid for one hundred years. How do you know of it?”

There was a glimmer of movement in the corner of Mical’s eye, but the only thing that was there was the gold statue. “So that’s where you’ve been hiding all this time Shaman.” Mical grinned as he changed his course and broke into a run toward what he now knew was the leader of this band of people and the man that he had wanted to see since he had stepped foot in this village.

“Take one more step and I’ll kill you ‘Tor-Rat’!” Gal’Or shouted as he flung his arm forward and the sliver whips matched the movement but twice as fast and they reached to block Mical’s path like a wall.

“Let him come, if he could see my breath while dancing with your silver-snakes then he has shown that he ‘sees’ with more that his eyes and earned the right to stand before my true body.” The Shaman said as the gold fell off his body in flakes that hit the ground with small thuds that echoed around the tent like his voice did moments ago.

There was an old man standing in the middle of what looked like a gold snake skin that had been freshly shed. The man stepped out of the gold mass and looked at Mical, “Well has seeing and feeling our art nulled your need for answers Charmer.”

“No it has only made it stronger. First I want to know about Gal’Or’s daughter, then what this forbidden art of yours is.” Mical said while taking off his shirt to rap the new wound on his arm.

“His daughter is thought to have stolen something that could not be stolen by other means than the blood arts. The blood arts are the ancient ability to control blood, be it in the caster’s body or in ther victims.” The Shaman said stepping off the pedestal that he had been standing. He began to walk toward Mical. As he got closer Mical could see gold markings covering every inch of the Shaman’s face and arms.

“What are those markings and why do they move every time you use your magic?” Mical asked his arm now rapped in his shirt.

“These markings are not markings at all but the blessing of ‘Cold’ mother of the siblings, it is what the other people of this world call metal.” The Shaman said as he knelt before Mical and touched his shoulder. “They are the way we make sure that we are never without the ability to fight.” As the Shaman spoke the gold snaked its way across his hand and onto Mical’s bare flesh.

“What are you trying to do?” Mical asked his eyes alight with amazement as he watched the gold snake down his arm and under his shirt. The metal slithered into the open wounds and began to bridge the torn flesh, then out of nowhere Gal’Or shot another silver-snake toward the Shaman.

He was red in the face and his eyes where glazed over with sliver blood trickling down his face like tears, “I will not stand for this!” he shouted. The blood that was falling off of his face fell onto his chest and then they slithered up to his arm to meet the sliver thread giving it a red edge that was slowly running the length of the thread.

Mical reacted on pure instinct, bolting back away from the Shaman so as to not get caught in the attack. He watched the Shaman fall to the ground, the sliver thread sticking out of the back of the Shaman’s arm, but something was not right Mical thought the Shaman looked different somehow but could not place it before Gal’Or turned on him. He was a silver blur like he was wearing a shroud again but there were red streaks that moved on the surface like little red rivers flowing throw sliver mountains.

“What the hell is going on here?” Mical asked he was still trying to understand what was going on and how Gal’Or was doing all this while his eyes were covered in silver, real solid silver. None of this made since, not only was he moving metal but his blood was moving like it to was alive.

Then there was a flash of silver to Mical’s left, he dove to the right out of the line of the strike but the silver whip looped around in midair and continued its impact course. Mical jumped again trying to get away from the whip. His mind still dwelling on the Shaman, why did he look so different, then it hit him the arm that he had touched him with did not have any gold on it but why not.

The silver whip struck Mical’s arm tearing his shirt off. To his surprise the large wound on his arm was no longer open but stitched together with what looked like gold thread. “What the hell?” Mical said as he rubbed the stitching, the shards of his plate still stuck out but he had no risk of bleeding anymore.

“You will die here and now outlander, it is the will of Blue!” Gal’Or shouted as three more whips lashed at Mical. He dove trying to get out of the way but one the whips caught his legs and drug him toward Gal’Or, who was laughing. Mical, in a panic, tried to get away but only bashed his left sholder on the ground. There was a pop as Mical’s joint slid back in place, he let out a pained sigh as he moved his arm.

Gal’Or had Mical at his feet; Mical could see where the whips had been cutting him as he had been commanding them.

“Do you have any last words corps?” Gal’Or said the whips hovering over Mical blood dripping of their ends.

“Did you frame her?” Mical asked while looking at the ground.

“What are you talking about?” Gal’Or asked he relaxed a little. “Oh you mean you mean my daughter don’t you? No I did not frame her, I taught her to use the old art and she could not control it.” He laughed as he rose his hand and the whips did the same, then they wound together forming a large drill.

“People like you make me sad Gal’Or do you want to know why?” Mical said he was standing now his back still to Gal’Or.

“Why is that, and why did you chose these words to be your last?” Gal’Or said as the drill began to spin.

Mical turned around, his face red with rage but a grin creased his lips, “People like you don’t know when you’re looking at a judge that will count you guilty.” Mical said his eyes locked on the silver domes that covered Gal’Or’s.

“You are no judge child.” Gal’Or laughed, the emphases he put on judge was mock and hallow.

“No I’m not the judge,” Mical said as he lashed out with his right arm catching Gal’Or by the throat, “I’m the executioner.”