Ambassador tya-4

  Ambassador

  ( The young ancients - 4 )

  P. S. Power

  P. S. Power

  Ambassador

  Chapter one

  “Uh…”

  OK, not the most brilliant statement of all time, but he was being detained? For what? Tor really wanted to know that before he just went peaceably. After all, it could be a trick. The King hadn't mentioned it to him after all. Worse, Captain Curtis, the city guardsmen in charge, wouldn't tell him. No, he just stood, backed by a hundred red and white uniformed men in funny round hats with a flat top and bill on the front to shade the eye.

  A hundred armed men.

  Well, it was Smythe who asked, so this probably wasn't aimed at him personally. It rankled, but what could they do? They all lined up and went along. Captain Curtis demanded everyone give up their weapons and shields as well as any other magical devices they were holding. That made Tor wary again.

  Why would they want them unarmed? They were just witnesses to an attack, not the assassins. They’d caught those and delivered them already. It didn’t make sense.

  Tor tried to treat it as a joke, but he felt really worried, like the whole thing was horribly wrong. Then, he’d always been nervous around guards. They didn’t have those in his home village at all.

  “Are you going to steal them? If you do I'll be upset, and possibly badmouth you by name in the streets, Captain Curtis.” Tor was joking, mainly, but he didn't want to be robbed like he had been before, and have to start all over yet again. It had only been a month since the last time. It was really about too much. The man didn't say anything to him, just fingered his weapon and glared, menacingly. He was good at it, like it was part of his job or something. The man looked about thirty and over six-four, now that Tor saw him on the ground. His moustache was brown, and kind of thin, trimmed that way.

  Seriously though? They were being taken prisoner? After everything this was how they were treated? Like criminals? In public too, just to humiliate them? Tor couldn't grasp it at all. Was it possibly…

  Nope, nothing came. It just didn't make sense. Even if the world had gone insane it didn’t.

  Smythe wondered out loud if it was to check for spies in their midst’s. Austran ones, Tor guessed. Well, they did have several assassins with them, but they weren't a real threat now, were they? The red and white clad men started to get more and more uneasy while he stood thinking. No one else had moved either. Finally he started taking his amulets off, but readied a new shield just in case. It wouldn't help the others, but if this was really bad, an attack or something, he could do more prepared than not. A man with a box came around to collect things, poking and patting at clothing, to make sure nothing was being hidden. They took all of his things too, his trunks of amulets and gold. It felt sad to watch them leave like that, trailing behind a guard private, little puffs of dust behind his black booted feet.

  They didn't go anywhere; they just had to stand under the hot sun. Tor wore only a pair of shorts, since they'd taken his magical clothing. It was humiliating, but he didn't let it gnaw at him, at least he'd had this clothing left in his trunk and grabbed it before they took everything away. They weren't to talk, or sit. Just stand, sweating and baking under an unforgiving orb in the sky. Tor used the time to build field after field into the loose undergarments. They wouldn't last long, he felt, more than knew. The material was too soft to hold a field more than six months or so, at a guess, especially making them while standing and trying to keep his eyes open. Finally he let them close. No one noticed for a long time. That lasted for a while, which he used to build a nice solid new weapon, until one of the guards came and pushed him, knocking him forward.

  The others laughed, because he didn't catch himself properly, being too deep. He just didn't have a reaction time at all in states like that. Not at all really. On the good side Tor didn't really feel the impact, about the only saving grace in the situation at all. He heard the pop though. His nose bleeding freely for a while after that, clearly broken, as he tried to keep his eyes open. The guards all pointed and laughed at him openly, as if watching Torrance Baker bleed was a great game.

  Then the men made a point of mocking him every few minutes for a while, calling him names. Mainly focusing on the fact that he was short, common looking, and probably had a small manhood based on his physical size. Though they used more colorful language for that part of him. It got bad enough after a while that even Smythe was starting to look a little angry about it. Given their history together, Tor decided to take that as a sign that what was happening might just be out of line.

  A little bit at least.

  They stood till near dark. The Larval were put under a tent, but the rest of them weren't allowed even water. As night fell they were finally escorted around the city by a full company of one hundred guards in their silly uniforms.

  They all had shields. All ones he'd made. Old ones from over a year before he noted, checking them all closely, feeling the fields call to him. Everything they had of a magical nature was at least based on designs he'd created. Even the weapons.

  Gods and puppies, had his work really sucked that much back then? That made him wince, if it was that bad then, how bad was it still? Gah, so much to learn. The fields weren't fading at all, but they had… holes, weaknesses, and things that he'd fixed over time, in later versions. For instance, if a person were focused enough, practiced enough, they could turn them all off at a distance. Say, a hundred feet? It wasn't a sure thing, but he thought that might be the case.

  Especially true if the person doing it had designed them in the first place.

  The twin streams of dried blood had flowed down his sparely haired chest, pooling at the top of the cotton shorts, matting the hair to him so that when he shifted, even a little, it ripped up from the roots. Sure, it wasn't the worst pain he'd felt in the last day, not even close, but it was a further indignity. Not exactly a hero’s welcome, was it?

  If he didn't have a good explanation soon, he was going to have to do something. Lack of water was taking its toll, as the men and women with him hadn't had any for a day already by then and the sun had baked the rest away. His mouth was parched and bitter, so much that it tasted like sand inside his mouth. Everyone else had shoes at least, his feet were sore, tender, but not bleeding when they got around the outer wall, the far side, away from the river. He couldn't even smell water in the air. His shoulders were burned red as well as his back, causing a less than friendly guard he'd never met to slap him there several times. Hard.

  “Stupid little peasant should have worn a shirt!” The man quipped as he struck again several times. He didn't react to the pain, so it became a game to the bored men, coming up behind him and slapping while they walked past. Each coming in with an insult, as if the guards were trying to outdo each other in creativity with each curse. The blows got harder and harder too, each one finally rocking him forward as he walked, the blows making enough sound that the people around him jumped from it. Tor didn't let himself do that, sinking deeper within between each.

  No one else got such treatment. The girls had even been given water. Smythe too, but not Count Ward. He looked about ready to kill someone, even though no one had even spoken harshly to him. Too big, and a sitting Count, if one out of favor. No, most of the abuse got heaped on Tor, being the smallest and youngest looking one there.

  Low level maybe, compared to true torture, but enough to tick him off. The slaps had turned into closed fist blows before they got all the way around the wall. All to his upper back at first, but a few aimed at the back of his head, the game being who could knock him down apparently. It seemed, from what the guards called out there was a wager on.

  Houses were set up for them, or perhaps just to teas
e them. All magical “Tor-houses”. The older kind. Well, they were sturdy enough and if you barricaded the doors well, they'd be hard to get out of. If, you know, you hadn't built them yourself. Or if you didn't know how a basic sigil worked. So in other words, if you were a moron.

  Really, you’d think that they would have caught on that trying to keep Tor a prisoner in a “Tor-house” might be a poor idea, but no one seemed to notice that. The guardsmen didn’t seem to be noticing much of anything though.

  Finally a young guard came around with a dipper full of water and a bucket. Everyone wanted more, but was given only one dipper per person. Almost as if to tease them with it. Everyone was so far beyond parched the situation was nearly unbearable.

  When it came to Tor he tested it with his mind first. That was automatic now, if it went into his body, it got tested somehow. He'd learned that one the hard way.

  “Poison!” The sound rasped from his throat, dark and gravely, a bit dry for real volume. It was too late for everyone else, unless he could get to the healing amulets, which were nowhere to be seen, or…

  A fist cracked against his jaw. Then he was hit again as he reeled. Tor blocked the third, the thirty-something bully in front of him barely noticing, his mustache curled back in a sneer. It was the same man that had started the whole “beating up Tor” game earlier.

  Heh.

  Time to fight then, if they were going to kill him anyway… Kill them. That seemed fair, didn't it?

  As planned Tor turned off all their shields as he reeled and fell to the ground from a blow that came in from a younger guard that jumped in from behind. Then tapping his waistband, a comic gesture he was certain, Tor brought up his own gear. It wasn't perfect and the effects weren't even or pretty, but it would serve. Pointing his right hand at the arrayed guards they fell like stick-men in a yard war. With his left, a slight nimbus of energy around it, glowing red, he sent out a blast of vertigo. Where it touched, men fell, weapons dangling loose in their hands. After a minute they started to vomit, and couldn't stop. After two they went to the ground and stayed there, heaving hard.

  Hey, Tor thought, it worked. It was just something he'd though up on the fly, a mental weapon, and these hadn't been the best working conditions, so in all he was pretty proud of it.

  No one on his side had moved to help, which was wise, since they'd get sick too. But when he glanced over they were all laying down already, the poison taking them. Crap. Hurrying he found which red and white clad person on the ground was Curtis and moved the field carefully to let him catch his breath, then crossing his right hand under his left he pinned the man to the ground with the force lance. Or at least a kind of field that was like it. He'd tried for strong, but the man really looked uncomfortable, almost as if the life were being crushed from him.

  Too freaking bad, stupid guard Captain should have resisted picking a fight with a Builder, shouldn’t he? Tor started asking questions without preamble. If the guy couldn't get it fast enough he'd try someone else.

  “What did you give them? What's the poison?”

  “What?” The guard Captain gasped, and waved his hands weakly, as if it would help him breathe. “Not poison, sleep draft, just to keep prisoners from getting restless at night. They'll just sleep for about six hours, that's all.” He gasped and wasn't too loud, but Tor could make out what he said.

  He even felt like he was being honest, so all these people weren't going to die. Good. Tor went on without waiting.

  “Who told you to abuse us? Why? What's the purpose behind this?” Tor heard words that came from the man, but they were all lies, talk of standard procedure and a shortage of men. It got the other man pined to the ground. Harder. That was one of the neat features of his new weapon. He could increase or decrease the force applied.

  With a thought. He increased the organization until Captain Curtis groaned pitifully.

  “Give me truth. Who and why. Now.”

  Now was a bit optimistic, it took a bit, but the order had come down the chain of command, it was said from the King. It said nothing about abuse or harsh treatment, not specifically for him at least, Tor guessed trying to read the man closely, but it had mentioned that they were suspects and witnesses regarding an attack of Austran Larval assassins they had with them and should be treated with caution. And not gently. Especially the enemy Count. Ward. The Captain didn't know why everything was taking so long, but suspected some kind of meeting. Nobles loved meetings he said.

  That was true. They could take a good ten minute chat about what to do next and milk it for days if you gave them a chance.

  “OK, and the harassment?”

  “They'd heard about the Austrans and the men are no lovers of that kind or those that would help them. It wasn't personal; they were just letting off some steam.”

  The man believed it well enough, but Tor wasn't about to let him up. Standing back he did remove the force lance field thing for a minute… and stomped the man in the face. It didn't bleed until he'd done it four more times, heel firmly to the center of it, a satisfying crackle finally coming from under Tor's foot. Then he stomped his groin for good measure, causing the Captain to curl into a ball, trying to protect himself.

  “Don't worry, I heard you led a troop of abusive assholes, so, you know, I'm just letting off a little steam about that. You understand and endorse this kind of thing though, right? No misunderstanding here? You think it's OK to abuse the people in your care who are the witnesses to a crime? The people that stopped the attack? So you won't mind this, no hard feelings, right?” No answer came for some reason. Tor kicked him in the groin again.

  He couldn't just leave them, being too dangerous. For a second he wondered if cutting of their arms and legs would be in order, but decided that was a bit of an over-reaction. Instead he ordered them to strip and take off their clothing and amulets. They didn't do it, feeling too ill to move, that or too important for such treatment. Probably that second one. They looked snooty at least.

  Tor hit them with the other field too, adding to their distress. A few tried to hold out and not do as he said, so he moved over to them carefully, repeated the orders and stomped their noses until they bleed too. His nose hurt in shared pain, but it served them right. His own shoulders hurt so much they burned, deep into the flesh from the blows, like the skin, already sun burnt and crisp, had torn in places, he could barely move his arms already.

  It took a while to manage it all, but he finally locked them in the houses intended for prisoners, the little magic ones, and turned the heat up on high, with no water connected inside. Then he made the doors turn into solid walls. It took an hour, but it worked. These were his houses after all. What kind of moron tries to put a builder in a prison of their own making?

  All the people he'd come with slept on the ground, except the larval assassins, who'd been given much gentler care, and taken away by wagon after the rest were marched around the Capital wall. Poking around he found his things and dressed again, putting his amulets on and healing himself, Which merely stung and ached more intensely for a moment, compared to the searing and severe pain of the last healing.

  Then he went around and did the other people to see if it would clear the drugs from their systems. It worked, people got up after about twenty seconds, as if they'd just been napping. Thank god. He'd really felt all alone there for a while, even with people right there next to him. The first thing everyone did was get amulets back on, and agree to fight rather than surrender them again. Even the military counselor was with them on that, which told Tor a whole lot about the situation.

  Smythe was normally a “follow the rules” kind of guy. For him to be that angry was… telling. The second was to use the communications device and get in touch with the King. Smythe wanted to speak first. Being the oldest and his boss, Tor agreed. Tor screaming at Richard from the start wouldn't help anything at all, would it? It probably wouldn't even make him feel better, Tor knew. Acting the bully always made him feel worse about himsel
f in the end. No matter how good the reason seemed at the time. Honestly, though he didn't let it show, he already felt bad about having hurt the guards like he had. They'd been out of line and kind of evil to him, but most of them were probably all right people most of the time. It made it really hard though, being still angry like he was. What could he do about it? Yell and complain? Like that would help?

  He let the military commander do it instead. Smythe even did a good job. Oh, he was polite, in a cold and wintry way. He never called names or suggested that the King himself order this for some reason, but he did tell him all about what happened, including how Tor had been treated and how he'd subdued the guards, unarmed and wearing only a pair of cotton undergarments. Then he suggested that the city guard had started a bit of a rebellion and if the King wasn't trying to do it on purpose, he'd better get out and explain that to them in person. Then he turned and bowed slightly to Tor.

  “Anything to add?”

  He had a bit, about his personal humiliation at the hands of the guards, the harassment and finally how they were currently locked in magical houses meant to imprison them, with the amulets put on the doors and the doors made into part of the wall. That and the fact that Tor had left the heat in each turned up on high.

  “But how are we supposed to get them open?” The King’s voice asked as if it was just a novel way of storing the amulets or something. He went quiet for a long while when Tor didn’t say anything, a deafening silence. Finally it broke, sounding… frustrated.

  “Oh.” The single word sounded pissy really, like Tor was in the wrong again somehow.

  It got a soft snort of derision from the short builder into the communications device.

  “Don't worry, it's no worse than what they did to us, they can even sit or lay down if they want for comfort. I'm sure they'll be fine if we let them out in ten hours or so. A day or two tops… What is it with you people? What have you been doing while we've been kept prisoner and trust me if you say, “eating a multi-course meal and then chatting about patriotism” I'm coming over there and… Well, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll ask around for ideas and trust me these people are ticked enough to come up with some good ones!” There. That would show him.