Untold Fate - Chapter 1

Chapter 1
He’s got enough, but not for long…


The young warrior doesn’t look back, approaching the grand city gates. Seeming unimpressed to say the least by the huge double doors, wide open before him, inches thick and the darkest of black. The only entrance through the massive over shadowing wall that guards the city within so well, stretching out either way for miles around the city.

He passes through the great gates, showing neither hesitation nor fear to the soldiers on guard, as if he were a normal citizen, leaving the lush open plains beyond the walls and entering into the magnificent city of Barmeekra, and the cities first street, Trio.

The bustling crowds soon engulfs him, must to his obvious disdain, as people from all walks of life pass his eyes, merchants, fighters, mothers, holy men, children and more soldiers.

The warrior walks slowly, showing something of a confidence or an arrogance in his every stride, unflinching as people knock pass him, leaving them to their angry stares as he forever keeps his head up and eyes forward, gradually making his way further down the street.

He stands out among the constantly shifting sea of people, youthful in his appearance, yet holding some wisdom in his wormhole eyes, someone who has seen a fair few battles. With more than a tale or two to be told from what little armour he wears, covered with dirt and splattered with the dried blood of his enemies, wearing different parts from different sets, as if savaged from many different dead.

It is the gauntlet though, that he wears on his right hand that has passing eyes bulging, with mouths aghast. The gauntlet knuckles protruding small blunt spikes, with a teeth of long spikes wrapped around his cuff, his very menacing metal gauntlet giving him a fearsome appearance indeed.

No one can even fathom what weapons he wields, the two sheaths crossed across his back having no defined shape, carrying anything the imagination is willing to believe, while incensing an instant mistrust and suspicion for the unknown young warrior, who hides his weapons for no more reason than a common thief would. His unruly shoulder length hair giving him an added wild touch.

The morning is still early, but the hustle and bustle of the market stalls and such keeps the crowded street alive, though this day is a special one at that, an excitement felt among the people, with open cheer and laughter all around.

But the young warrior is the only person not to laugh or smile, and is deaf to hear the call of his name above the celebrations.

“Harmony!” a young boy repeatedly calls, swerving frantically through the dense street. “Wait up! Harmony!”

  Ducking and dodging, the small boy has no power to make people move out of his way, Squeezing through whatever gap he can find in the crowded street. Finally reaching the young warrior Harmony, he yanks onto his belt, pulling his attention.

“Ottaz? What’s wrong?” Harmony asks him. Stopping in his tracks and turning to the young boy.

But Ottaz is too exhausted to reply, throwing his older friend a scolding glance instead, while Harmony merely breaks into the slightest of grins. Watching Ottaz as he gradually regains his breath. 

“I’ve been trying to catch up with you for the past ten minutes!” Ottaz at last blurted out.

“Well if you said something I would’ve stopped.” Harmony replied.

“How could I? You walked off! Right in the middle of the fight!” Ottaz grunted, feeling more agitated by the minute. “I had to finish off the rest of those stupid nargrits that were still attacking me!” he said, watching Harmony’s grin become more apparent, not taking him all too seriously.

“You planned that didn’t you?” he suddenly realised, without Harmony muttering a word. Deflating a little, but not entirely losing the edge in his tone. “I knew you were leading us through a nargrit patch, I just knew it! That was a dirty trick!”

“I knew you could do it.” Harmony said, showing a friendly smile. “Besides you needed the practice.”

He knew Harmony was right of course. He did need the extra practice. He has fought over a hundred battles before, but always with Harmony at his side. Going solo is an entirely different matter, you have no choice but to rely on yourself, something he is yet to become accustomed to.

But that doesn’t mean he has to admit Harmony is right, simply grunting and leaving the conversation where is it.

“So where do we register for the tournament?” Ottaz asked curiously, returning to the big topic at hand.

Harmony points to his right. Where a growing queue is lining the street, gathering in front of a small wooden and red booth. “It’s just over there. I got a glance of it when you were catching breath. So do you remember the plan?”

“Yep.” Ottaz said nodding, as if he could forget when their mentor, Faid, drilled the plan in their heads a dozen times over.

“Right then, I’ll go queue up.” Harmony said, wasting no time to barge indelicately through the crowd. To join the long queue of men and women, waiting before the tiny red booth.

Ottaz is still for moment. Having yet to grip his surroundings. Until it hits him, a sudden whirl of excitement in his chest, he’s finally here, the city of Barmeekra.

He cannot help but gleam, gazing at the scenery of the street, the buildings so different to what he imagined, brightly coloured and made of stone, sturdy and strong. A place so different from Wondon Port.

Even the people here dress differently. Wearing cloths he has not ever seen, some ladies revealing more than others, and some, the richer folk he presumes, wearing great manes of fur hooked on their behinds. Like a big cushion stuck to their bottoms, he thought laughing to himself. All in all, the people here are as colourful as the city itself.

Though the day is more special than others he knows, with the tournament looming only hours away. Vibrant banners flutter in the gentle breeze from every window, entertainers marvel and ooh the crowds, holy men preach, and the smell of delicious foods whips under his nose.

Looking to his left, he sees Harmony has already made it to the queue, arms crossed and glaring coldly to the unwanted stares that pass.

He can’t blame them though, as Harmony stands out like a thorn. Even amongst men and women in the queue wearing armour, wielding swords, axes and any weapon you could possible desire. If he didn’t know him all his life, he might have been scared of Harmony’s looks too.

Though they are often mistaken, they are not actually brothers, and truthfully he is glad it never felt that way either. Even though Harmony helped raise him from when he was just a baby. He is happy to call Harmony his best, closest, and in reality, his only friend. As that bond seems so much stronger than that of brothers, a bond of blood, as theirs is more a bond by choice.

Glancing across to Harmony has him soon realising that he is also receiving suspicions stares passing by. So his hair is a bit scruffy and unkempt, flopping down to his eyes only to be consistently blown out of the way. Still no reason for the stares, he thought. He could brush it, but that seems too much like a chore, when there are always better things to do, especially when he doesn’t have a brush.

The day is warm and sunny, and he as usual is wearing his big comfy coat. The coat is as dirty as anything, but he never likes taking it off, it’s a part of him. Yet admittedly, he can’t help but feel some of the stares coming his way are that of sympathy, seeing him as some unfortunate boy beggar, undoubtedly because of his dirty coat, feeling the sudden need to try and wipe the smudges and god knows what off his sleeves, his attempts inevitably being all in vain.

But it doesn’t take long before he is easily distracted, as a shrieking, irritable voice pierces his ears. Although part of him doesn’t want to turn to the voice, curiosity gets to better of him, seeing a mother with her child close by.

The mother is sturdy in her stance, waving her pointed finger, as her child stands defiant, stamping his feet on the ground as his mother barks out orders. 

“I said no! It’s too dangerous!” the angry mother repeated.

“But mum! I want to see the fighters in the arena tonight!” the boy whines, waving his hands.

The mother points to a nearby poster, stuck to a lamppost in the centre of the street. “Do you see this poster? If you’re out tonight he could kill you!” Even from where Ottaz stands, he can tell the sketch of the man in the poster doesn’t look like a nice man at all.

“But mu-”

“No buts! You’ll be in the house before the second round even starts, it wouldn’t be a motherly thing to do if I let you roam the streets with him round here!”

The mother snatches the boy’s hand and marches down the street, dragging her son behind.

Ottaz walks up to the poster, wanting to know more. Getting a closer look, the sketched picture of the man looks meaner than ever, with bold words written just below, muttering them as he takes them in.

“Zet...master assassin...has been sighted in Barmeekra...for your own safety please stay indoors at night...if sighted please contact officials immediately. Do not confront him for your own safety.”

Still absorbed by the poster, he is given a start like no other, nearly jumping two paces back, by a loud deep belly laughter that booms throughout the street. The hairs standing to attention on his arms and neck.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “That was loud...”

He quickly gains his composure, more so because of the still passing stares, now pulling faces at him, and turns to see where the great laughter is still roaring from, but sees nothing at first.

Then through a gap in the crowd, he glances upon a gigantic harati, coming to the end of his laughter. Sitting at a large wooden table in an open wall bar, with the biggest smile any man could hope to have on his face. The three men sitting at the table with him, are all looking down, shaking their heads.

The first thought that comes to his mind is how he can see a harati, a real harati, just in the distance, sitting casually among men.

His second thought was how weird that was. A harati? With humans? In a human city? Until now, Ottaz believed this was unheard of.

But there the harati was, a nine-foot giant towering above men. His skin a deep red, as tough as it was thick, that no blade could so easily cut. The wide-eyed harati wearing his pale white hair in a low ponytail, which is something not seen often among men either.

Yet it is doubtful anyone would dare insult this harati because of his hairstyle. The sheer size of his muscles is something that cannot be believed until you see them for yourself, not even the biggest and strongest of men could even hope to match half his size.

He thought he was having it bad, trying to blend in with the crowd. The harati doesn’t stand a chance. Asides from his skin and size, the harati is practically naked too. Wearing only furs and skins around his waist, to cover his dignity if nothing else, knowing harati’s need no clothes to keep warm or dry as such, their thick skin able to bear through anything nature can throw at him, from storms of rain, to the chilling winds of the night.

From where he stands, the only other thing Ottaz can see the harati wearing is a necklace, which is nothing more than a long string, bearing many different teeth, the more larger ones proudly centred on his chest.

This was the first time he has ever seen a harati. They weren’t much different looking to humans after all. But is hard to ignore their size and the colour of their skin. And even harder to remind yourself that one whom looks twenty, could be well over a hundred years old, their precise longevity unknown to humans.

But the greatest difference in Ottaz’s mind has nothing to do with the physical differences, but the magic that flows through them.

Mystica magic flows like blood in humans. But the harati’s, have an entirely different sort of magic altogether, known only as spiritual magic, the ability to transform, into any beast they so required.

He remembers a fond memory just then, recalling a lesson once taught to him by Faid. The words still feeling fresh in his mind.

“If you strike a beast and it dodges your attack swiftly, then it’s lucky.” Faid had once said. “If you strike the beast a second time and again it dodges swiftly, then the beast is more clever than most. But if for a third time you miss your sure strike, then it is a harati transformed, and you better start running.” Ottaz smiles at the thought.

Still watching the harati from the street, the giant mans laughter has long since disappeared, but is still smiling happily at his associates sitting at the table.

The three men stand up unanimously away from the table, theirs heads still hung low. The harati laughs once again, as the three men walk away, shuffling down the street. 

With his huge arms, the harati pulls in the three piles of money across the table from where the three men last sat, joining the money with his much larger pile on the table. The harati shouts out to the three men, even though they are long gone, his voice deep, and confident, as his laughter remerges. 

“Hey, maybe better luck next time!” he hears the harati roar.

Ottaz smiles deviously, unable to control himself as he still watches on. In all this time the harati has not noticed him staring, too happy with himself as his eyes twinkle at the pile of money before him.

Ottaz whispers a few words, watching delightfully at the harati’s large pile of money.  “Well he’s got enough, but not for long...”