by Rob J. Hayes
I also earned a new aspect to my reputation. We went down into the dark depths to explore. I came out flanked by three great monsters, the likes of which most people hadn't seen since the end of the war. More than that, they were mine, even without an Impomancy Source. To my knowledge, no other Sourcerer has ever managed to command a creature from the Other World without the aid of an Impomancy Source. It was a feat unique to me. Of course, I should say it was unique to Ssserakis, but no one else knew of the horror I carried inside.
They called me mad, as I was too often caught talking to myself. I was named a dark queen. Monsters, nightmares listened to me, did my bidding. A stone arm, flashing eyes, a shadow that warped itself to my will, and the power to raise a city out of the earth itself. It didn't matter that only half of the rumours were true, and it mattered even less that those which were accurate were not entirely my doing. The responsibility and the blame were laid squarely at my feet, and I made no attempt to dispute them. I accepted the rumours, good and bad, made them a part of myself.
They called me mad, a dark queen, and I used their insults to define myself. There is a power in being what other people expect, just as much as there is power in being unexpected. Some people joined my cause out of a desire for something new and different, others joined me out of fear; the fear my growing reputation had put in them. Still others joined me because of the promises I made. I was quite open about it.
War.
Chapter 18
More and more people arrived at my little city. Some were survivors of the Pit, somehow finding alternate routes to the surface, or surviving a pitch-black swim even after days trapped by the rising waters. That is a trial I cannot imagine, and yet a few people did just that, a testament to their will to survive. Others were looking for a fresh start, and thinking my city somehow held the key to a prosperous life they couldn't find elsewhere. Others still, were criminals, fleeing justice and finding sanctuary in a city full of criminals. I let the others put them to work, I had no heart for it. I have never wanted to rule anything but my own actions, and I've struggled with those often enough.
I delved deeper and deeper into the ruins beneath us, looking for something, though I could not say what. I think, perhaps, it was escape I was looking for. Responsibility has never sat lightly on my shoulders, and people were looking to me for rule and guidance. Down there, in the gloom, it was comfortable. Despite the monsters, and the weight of rock above, I felt safer down in that ruined city than I did up in the freedom on the surface. It staggers me to think just how much things had changed. As a prisoner down in the Pit, I longed for freedom, to see the sky again. Now, I longed for the dark, the close confines of rock around me, of walls I could see and feel. Maybe it was Ssserakis' influence on me, but I think it went deeper than that. I was running away. Again.
Horralain never failed to come with me, a second shadow of sorts, and a tireless defender. He never complained, nor questioned, and rarely left my side. Ishtar followed me down into the dark once and I was glad of her jovial company. Her mocking never failed to put a smile on my face, but it was not my company that drove her to follow me down there.
The Terrelan Empire has always been quite xenophobic. The people are intolerant of the differences in others, and it is a truth of our culture that has been nurtured by rulers for hundreds of years. I saw no pahht or tahren when Orran still existed, and the garn were even more mysterious still. No. Terrans, as a whole, are not so welcoming of differences. Maybe they are a little more so in Polasia, but then it is an empire founded and thriving on trade and cannot afford to discriminate. Make no mistake, the other peoples of Ovaeris are not so different. I've been to Urengar, a tahren city built in the caverns of a dead volcano, and I've seen the jungles the pahht call their homelands. Do you know how many terrans I saw in my time there? Not many. So few, I was considered an oddity. The truth is, none of our peoples are so cosmopolitan. They do not like to mix unless forced to, such as in Polasia or Ro'shan. Yet, we are all made better by the diversity. Ishtar soon found the stares and whispers of the Terrelans who joined us more than she could bear. More than once I had to stop her from using her swords to reply to bigotry. I did it for the sake of peace, but I wonder if I might have been better served letting her teach the fools a final lesson.
Imiko followed me down there one time. The thief had still not shed her melancholy, and even the ringlet had taken to abandoning her in favour of more active people to bother. She was quiet for so long as we stalked those halls, I almost forgot she was there.
"Do you miss Ro'shan?" she asked out of the blue. I turned to face her, ordering one of the Khark Hounds to continue as a scout. "Feels like so long ago, doesn't it?" I found myself having to look up at Imiko. I couldn't say when she had gotten so tall, but she seemed to tower over me. "I left a lot of stuff up there. Money, food. Friends." There was a sadness to her words that went deep, and something else too, a pleading edge.
Silva once told me there was a sadness in me she could never touch. Ishtar said my anger was an unquenchable fire that would burn every bridge I tried to make, and me along with it. People will always try to tell you what you are, what you are made of, where you belong, and what you should do. Fuck them all! I forge my own path. I will not allow others to tell me who I am. I will tell them. I'll tell the whole world. I will scream my defiance into the face of every single person in this world before I allow them to dictate my fate. That has always been my way. But it was not Imiko's. She needed comfort.
Without warning I lurched forwards and wrapped my arms around the thief. She stiffened and let out a squeak. That hurt a little, I'll admit, as though she didn't trust me, couldn't be sure I wasn't about to hurt her. I held Imiko tight for a few moments, and eventually she relaxed and returned the embrace. When we pulled apart, there were tears in her eyes, and a grateful smile on her face. I had no words that could help her sadness, and I could not bring back what she had lost. Worse yet, I knew she had lost it because of me. So, I offered what I could. Myself. In that brief embrace, I assured Imiko I would be the rock that she could lean on, no matter what. Sometimes, people need actions far more than words.
"Thank you," Imiko said, wiping her eyes. I gave her a smile and hoped it didn't look insidious. Flashing eyes, a pale complexion, and face in constant shadow could make anyone look a little ghoulish, and my scars only served to help the matter.
When Tamura came with me, he looked upon the dark depths with wonder. I think it must have looked oddly familiar to him, but his addled mind could not remember when he had last been there. We met some imps that day, and the crazy old Aspect kept muttering about shrooms, but nothing he said made sense to anyone but himself. I had to stand between the Khark Hound and the huddling imps to keep it from attacking them, and it took Ssserakis manifesting our wings once more to finally convince the monster to back away.
There were a dozen imps, huddling in a corner of a large room. They were filthy and frightened and bloody. And they bowed to me, holding up hands just as they did the last time I was there. I touched a single finger to each upturned palm, and the imps chittered excitedly. We left them there, certain they were harmless. Imps may be nightmares, just like every one of the denizens of the Other World, but not all nightmares are dangerous. Some are just misunderstood.
Finally, Hardt ventured into the depths with me. He had camped outside the city for a long time, refusing to set foot within the halls, even the bits that were now above ground. Fresh grief was etched in the lines of his face. It took a lot for him to brave the ruined Djinn city once more. I always felt so very small between Hardt and Horralain. Both were considered giants for their stature, but it was more than just physical height and build. They were larger than life.
"Is it strange that I feel small beside you?" Hardt asked me as we paced along the corridors of broken stone.
With each foray, I found more of the Damned down there, swarming the lower halls in a mass of chaos and violence. My shaking of the city had w
oken them all up from whatever prolonged slumber they had entered into. Of course, even a host of Damned were little match to a couple of Khark Hounds set loose. I had two of the beasts with me that day, and they kept easy pace with the rest of us.
"Yes." The answer needed no consideration. "It would take about three of me to fill one of you, Hardt. Besides, you don't get to say you feel small when I have to look up just to see your chin. Not that I can even see that anymore, underneath that thicket."
Hardt scratched at his blossoming beard. Why he chose to stop shaving is beyond me, but men often seem inordinately proud of their ability to grow hair on their faces. "I mean to say, I feel useless, Eska. The enemies you fight now. Djinn and Rand, the Iron Legion, Aspects, Sourcerers. I can't help you fight them. The Iron Legion proved that well enough. Put me down with a glance and I needed you to save me."
I shrugged. "You never liked to fight."
"But I could, if it was needed. Down here I fought against the Damned. Protected everyone. But what can I do now? What good am I to you now? I can't protect you anymore."
It all seemed so foolish to me. "You bloody idiot."
"What?" Hardt seemed genuinely hurt.
"You think I need you to protect me?" I rounded on him, anger flaring. "Poor little Hardt. Always there to protect Eska when she gets into trouble. Is it such a bad thing I can get myself out of trouble now?"
"That's not really…"
"It must be hard for you to see me actually standing on my own feet, in front of the world instead of hiding behind your bulk." That was harsh, and I hated myself for saying it.
Even in the gloom I could see him grinding his teeth. "Yeah, you've done a great job so far."
"And what the fuck does that mean?"
For a moment neither of us said anything, though in truth we were not so much speaking to one another, but rather shouting. "Just look at yourself, Eska. Look at what you've done to yourself. What you've become." He took a big step forward and reached out. I didn't flinch away. Hardt gripped hold of my shadowy hood between thumb and forefinger, wincing as the cold of that shadow bit into his skin. "You conceal yourself in this… shadow. Your eyes aren't terran anymore. They're… I don't know. Like a Djinn or something. You turned your own damned arm to stone, Eska! And don't think I haven't noticed you talking to yourself, arguing with yourself. Normal people don't do that!"
Anger begets anger. It is a defensive tactic, I think. When we are beset by uncomfortable truths, rather than face them, we find it so much easier to point out uncomfortable truths in others. Minor issues are blown out of proportion, and festering slights come to the forefront in boiling accusations and insults. Otherwise indelible friendships have been shattered by an ill-timed argument. Trust me on this. I have lost too many friends for the sake of letting my pride rule me.
He doesn't understand. "You're right, Hardt. I'm not normal!" The words were flowing thick and fast now, a current that could not be stopped, and with it rode anger and spite, and maybe some resentment too. I wish I had said none of it. "I'm a monster."
"I didn't say…"
"All these things you say I've done to myself are the price of power." The darkness rose around me like a palpable mist, dimming the torchlight. "And don't for a moment think the rest of you, my friends, haven't benefited from my sacrifices." I didn't mean the words, but I couldn't stop them. I wish I had stopped. I wish I had never started. It was all lies. Misdirected anger thrown at the one person who didn't deserve it. "You crawl along behind me, basking in my accomplishments because you're too moon-damned scared of finding your own fucking lives! If it wasn't for me, you'd still be wallowing in the Pit, kissing Prig's arse in the hopes he'd let you live another day!"
"Benefited?" Tears rolled down Hardt's lined cheeks and he suddenly looked old and weary, the vitality leached out of him by this torrent of anger. "You think I benefit from this crusade of yours? Like Isen benefited from it? Like Kento benefited?" Those words hurt. Not just me, they hurt us both. My daughter was a rift between us that never healed, and he wielded her fate like a knife, plunging it into my chest. I felt my throat tighten and my chest ache. Tears welled in my eyes, reflecting the lightning in them back at me as shards of disjointed light. But I refused to let those tears fall.
We don't need him. "You're right, Hardt, I don't need you!" We've outgrown him. "I've moved past you." He should just leave. "So why don't you just take your overgrown fucking arse back to the surface before I kick it all the way there!"
I don't know how long we stood there in silence, staring at one another, Horralain and the Khark Hounds forgotten. It could have been seconds or it could have been hours, time lost meaning in that charged confrontation. Hardt's jaw worked like he was gearing up to say more, but then his face hardened into a grimace and he shook his head, storming past me, back the way we had come.
I waited for as long as I could. My left hand, as well as my right, was clenched into a tight fist, and I didn't realise how odd that was. As soon as Hardt's footsteps had faded I stormed ahead into the darkness, tears still welling and threatening to fall at any moment. Horralain made to follow me, but I sent him sprawling with kinetic push. Once the darkness was complete, I drew in a deep breath. And I fucking screamed. There were no words. It was a cry of pure emotion, emptying out of me in a way it couldn't with words. The walls, floor, and roof of the tunnel cracked from the force of a kinetic shockwave I did not mean to let loose. And I cried. Great wracking sobs of pain, of anger, of regret.
I've heard it said that life has a habit of kicking a person when they are down. It's crap. Life is not some sentient, callous overlord looking to magnify our pain. Each of our lives are full of friends and enemies, often ones we didn't even realise we had, and they are ever watchful for when you are reeling and injured. Friends will, of course, rush to aid you in such a state, assuming you haven't pushed them away. Enemies, on the other hand, will jump on you when you are at your most vulnerable. It is not life that kicks us when we are down. Most often, it is our own choices that do the job, coming full circle to teach us the error of our ways.
My heart wasn't in the exploration after my fight with Hardt. We wandered the darkened halls for a time, but in truth it was just to give my friend time to make his way out. I didn't want to come across him as I retreated to the surface. Eventually I sent the hounds off to hunt, and turned back, my feet trudging with every step. My anger was still there, simmering, but a weariness had settled over me. Part of me wished to collapse right there and then, huddle up against a wall and cry until I couldn't anymore. It was a rather large part of me, truth be told. I soldiered on, dragging my feet, Horralain dogging my steps. Despite my violence against the man, he did not leave me, nor even complain.
"People follow strength." As always, Horralain's words came slowly, as though each one was measured from every angle before leaving his mouth. He couldn't see my ghosts, but Deko laughed at the words. It's strange that most of my ghosts were solemn things, almost emotionless save for the melancholy. Deko, on the other hand, was as hateful in death as he had been in life. He sneered and made threatening moves toward me, as though an impotent ghost could scare someone who carried the embodiment of fear inside of them. "It's nature. Can't blame a person for lining up behind someone who has what you lack. It's how we survive. Together."
This one is more astute than we took him for.
By the time we reached the surface I was caught between rage and despair. I wanted to hate Hardt for his assumption that I ever needed protecting, but at the same time, I wanted to hate myself for the words I spewed at my friend. I didn't mean them, not all of them anyway. I did still need Hardt, not as a protector, but as something far more vital. His friendship and guidance kept me centred, and his strength was something I had come to rely upon, to lean upon. I don't mean his strength of arm, but his inner strength. I might have been leading this ragtag bunch of soldiers, prisoners, and misfits, but Hardt had been there since the very beginning, holding me up
, lending me the strength to go on. That is what I should have said to my friend. I should have told him how much I needed him, in ways far more vital than being a pair of fists. Instead, I insulted him and drove him away. Ishtar was right about me. I am a fire who only knows how to burn bridges.
So caught up in my spiralling melancholy was I, that I barely noticed the woman waiting at the entrance to the city depths. She called herself Nic and she was stunning. Far too beautiful to have spent any time down in the Pit. Glossy black hair and flawless onyx skin, eyes full of malice, lithe body tense as bowstring. I stumbled past the woman as if she wasn't there. Only Horralain's ferocious attention to preserving my life saved it.
The first I knew of any treachery was a loud grunt by Horralain, and the ground beneath my feet shattered to rubble. I struggled to keep my footing, stumbling forward even as I turned. Nic was there, hate in her face and a blade in her hands. The knife was a curious thing, as long as my forearm and with a jagged edge that would tear rather than cut. Her eyes fixed on me even as Horralain, stood between us, hefted his hammer for another strike.
Horralain was fast, far swifter than any man his size had right to be, but she was quicker. Even as my protector raised his hammer, Nic rushed forward, slipping inside his guard, and plunged her knife into Horralain's chest three times. Her eyes never left me, fixed on their true target. Horralain grunted in surprise and pain, blood gushing from his wounds, and then Nic tossed him aside as though he weighed nothing, sending him crashing into a nearby wall. He didn't rise.
That was when I knew the true identity of my attacker. I should have seen it earlier, should have seen past the lie. "Well that's a week worth of infiltration wasted." Her voice dripped with hate. "At least this way I get to watch you die instead of knifing you in the back."
"Coby!" I spat her name with as much malice as she directed at me. A glance toward Horralain revealed that he wasn't getting up any time soon. His body twitched and a big hand clutched at his chest. There was a lot of blood, too much even for a man of his size. Too much blood. Too much death. Too much loss. Another of my allies, of my friends ripped away from me. All the anger, all the pain, all the hate I had felt underground came rushing back in and I screamed in animal fury.