She flipped from the edge, curving her blade out as she spun in the air.
She landed on one knee, the Hunters safely behind her, the Aren before her. She remained crouched down as she brought her weapon’s point up into the diaphragm of the next assailant. He stumbled towards her and she spun on her knee out to the side, liberating her weapon from his dying body as she stood. The two remaining Aren descended upon her swiftly. She twirled, her cloak flying about her as she landed a roundhouse kick against one. He fell to the ground as the other, with surprising might, grabbed her from behind. His strong forearm locked around her neck and pulled her back tightly. Her leather boot slipped in a thick pool of blood and she struggled to regain her footing as the other Aren recovered, steadying himself before her.
She backed into the man holding her and thrust her sword outward, connecting with the second Aren’s side just enough to sting. He lunged at her, snarling wildly. She leaned back into her captor and kicked at the wounded man. She got his chin and forcefully sent him flying onto his back.
The silvery glint of the dagger caught her eye just in time.
The Aren holding her held his weapon high above her; ready to bring it down on her chest. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the energy between them—on her power—and, just as she had anticipated, the Aren shrieked in agony, dropping his blade to the ground, loosening his hold on her neck. Jessop snaked her sword about in her expert fingers, curved her body to the side, and thrust her sword inward, past her hip, into his abdomen.
She spun out of his grip, pulling her blade loose. He coughed, blood dripping from his lip, pooling in his gut. She remained in position with her sword extended out, perfectly parallel to the ground, her feet steadying themselves in the still-warm blood of her slain victims. She stood at the ready in a circle of the dead or dying. None of the attackers moved and she took a cautious breath, mentally assessing her body for injuries—she was mostly unharmed and the battle was over.
She cleaned her blade swiftly on her cloak and sheathed it before turning to the Hunters. The older was supporting the younger, applying pressure to his wound and they both stared at her with wild-eyed confusion, though the young one looked on through fluttering eyelashes.
The blue eyes of the old Hunter narrowed on her. “Tell me who you are,” he ordered.
She looked away from him to his wounded companion. She could see the blood shining over his leather. His paling face and slowing breaths were poor signs. “Your friend needs treatment,” she advised.
The silver-haired Hunter nodded, more concerned with his young friend than her identity. “Then help me get him some, girl.”
Jessop flinched at the word, but nodded. She took a step towards the Hunters, and eased the young one’s arm over her shoulder, slowly pulling him away from the bar. It was only once she was close enough to support his weight did she understand why his skin seemed to shimmer like silver to her—he was covered in hundreds of scars.
“You saved us,” he whispered, his hazel eyes studying her. She smiled tightly at him, uncertain of how to respond, and then watched as he lost consciousness; his heart slowing caused her own to speed up.
* * * *
“This one,” the old Hunter barked, practically dragging them towards what Jessop believed could quite possibly have been the oldest Soar-Craft she had ever seen. She had no time to question the safety of the ship, as the silver-haired Hunter had already begun to push his wounded comrade into the vehicle.
She crawled over the door and into the back, trying to avoid the precarious metal prongs poking through the old vinyl seat cover as she awkwardly continued to help support the weight of the Hunter. The older man pushed his unconscious body at her gruffly, and she coughed as his young heavy frame collapsed against her, pinning her down. She freed her arms from underneath him, readjusting her sheath before fixing his head against her shoulder and pressing one hand against his wound. His hair had fallen loose from its knot and covered his face like a veil of gold. Without thinking, she stroked it back, smoothing it away from his soft skin. And then quickly retracted her hand.
She forced her attention onto the older Hunter as he leapt into the control seat. He fiddled with a compartment door and when it wouldn’t give under his rough grab, he let his hand hover slightly above it, and then—like magic—it popped open.
Jessop took a deep, controlled breath; this was her cue to confirm her beliefs about the Hunters. “You’re one of them?”
“Yes, I’m one of the Hunters of Infinity, girl. Can’t you see our sigil? Now here, take these,” he barked, tossing a pair of worn out leather goggles at her. She pulled the goggles over the young Hunter’s head, securing them over his closed eyes. The older man handed her a second set, and despite their frayed leather and browned screens, she pulled them on. She studied the sigil on the leather vest of the unconscious Hunter—she had seen the mark, she knew it well.
The older Hunter hit a button on the dash several times before another compartment opened up and a yoke ascended from it. As he grabbed hold of the yoke, a blue light emitted, scanning his hands.
“Welcome back, Hanson Knell,” the automated Soar-Craft voice crackled.
Jessop had heard the name many times before and she was actually somewhat shocked that of all the Hunters for her to have found, it was Hanson Knell. And if he was Hanson Knell, she could be certain that the fair, scarred young man lying unconscious in her lap was his mentee Kohl O’Hanlon. She could have mused over the knowledge further, but now was not the time—she was a nervous flyer in the safest of ships. She anxiously looked the vehicle over, and squeezed against Kohl O’Hanlon a bit tighter under the sputtering of revving engines.
“Is this thing sky-worthy?” she yelled up to Hanson Knell.
“It’s been safely navigating the Daharian skies since before you were born,” the old Hunter called back. He pulled on the yoke and the Soar-Craft began to shakily hover off the ground.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she grumbled, closing her eyes as they took off at a surprisingly quick speed for the old machine.
Hanson Knell navigated the Soar-Craft through the underground maze, where those who wished to go to such a bar had to park their ships. It didn’t take long for the old machine to gain a terrifying break-neck speed and soon they were whirring through the dark space, taking sharp corners and diving down steep descents. Jessop held the young Hunter tightly, pushing her cloak against his wound.
As they finally emerged from the labyrinth, the unmistakably red sky, where hundreds of other Soar-Craft zipped around them, blinded Jessop. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the unfamiliar crimson atmosphere of Azgul.
She wasn’t from Azgul, though she had been there for several days, preparing for this moment, where she would find the ones like her. She couldn’t help but think, as she looked down at the young Hunter’s blood, staining rivers into the lines of skin on her hand, that with all the violence that had already ensued, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
As quickly as the sense of certainty materialized it had disappeared, wrenching from her gut as the Soar-Craft dropped some sixty-feet in the sky to undertake a row of oncoming ships. Hanson Knell was either a brilliant or superbly dangerous pilot. He tore the old machine through the skies, weaving through organized lines of Soar-Craft, cutting off other pilots, making unsanctioned cuts and dives around Levi-Hubs, where other pilots, busy recharging their ships, yelled and cursed at them. Jessop didn’t care about the dangerous flying, the precarious