The Source: Observer Chronicles, Book 3

Chapter 19: The Sixth

It had been two days with Brenda hardly speaking to the warriors, appalled at their actions, and they had all felt it.

"I wonder where he went?" asked Lauret.

"Even if he is the strongest of us, he surely can't fend off the entire army alone out there," Clarabelle looked out the window as she said this, "I hope he's OK, wherever he is."

* * *

Reetho slammed down his rucksack (he had taken from Brenda without asking) on the side of the road. He walked for miles and didn't hesitate to look back, still thinking about what had happened all this time whilst heʼd travelled.

His face was heavy and full of despair as he flung himself to the ground. Breathing loud from the weight of the bag and looking at the yellowy-green grass, it reminded him of the soldiers' lives and then began to make him think of their numbers dwindling.

But then he thought about Elle. This would be the perfect time to look, even if I am alone.

It so happened that Reetho hadn't noticed what was to the side of him until now. A house that looked abandoned stood in the coming light from a car as he entered.

The sound of nothing would have usually frightened him, but he didn't care so much about where he was right now. The fire-wielder lay on a couch he found as the darkness engulfed him. He felt as if he was about to sob, though heard something pull him out of it before it had a chance to take him.

"Hello?" he yelled, springing to his feet, weary, moving slowly through the house. He tried the lights but none of them worked, it still being dark this early. There it is again, thought Reetho, like a tapping on the floorboard. He heard the whistling of the wind as he worked his way up the stairs. A creaking came from one of the rooms.

Reetho's breathing had increased some due to his hasty climbing. He went into the first room nearest him, the white curtain blown by a breeze making the rocking chair sway in front of the window wide open on the other side, resembling the front door with its chipped paint.

A little rubble peeled off the roof, "Oh no," said a female voice; she sped her way through and out of the house, so fast, that it caused him to fall walking towards the moving chair.

"No Earth human is that fast," said Reetho to himself. He kneed the rocking chair as he got back up.

"You're not one of them, are you? said this other voice. Reetho looked around, trying to find where it was coming from.

"Where have you gone?" Lightning struck the roof in quick succession creating a hole, hitting the room he was in some inches away. Now she was standing on the rocking chair with steam emanating from all over her body. Her leg touched his to make him aware she was real and there, "you're scorching hot. How did you do that?"

"Can't you?" she asked.

"I wouldnʼt know if I could," replied the boy.

"I suppose us folk are two different people."

"Us folk?" he asked, fast, "are you an Amaranthian?"

"Of course I am. What did you think I meant?"

"But you're not the sixth warrior."

"Why would I be the sixth—," she paused to take it all in, "please tell me you are not a warrior short?"

"It's two with me gone."

"This is bad, not to mention dangerous."

"So . . . who are you?" asked Reetho, "are you a spell-caster?"

"No, thank the gods. Those rich, pompous arrogant people are the last thing I would want to be a part of. Iʼm the only surviving Edeolon Warrior from the last millennia."