Wing & Nien

by Shytei Corellian

  His victory was short lived.

  From both sides of the Great Hall, another influx of Ka’ull flooded in.

  Breathing hard, he bodily maneuvered Joash back into the rest of the family, pressing them once more toward the secret passageway.

  At another corner of the room, Lant stood in a wreckage of Ka’ull warriors made possible by a past he had shared with no one in Rieeve but of which the Cant had been the benefactor. Around his feet, four Ka’ull lay dead, and behind him was a trail of lifeless dark robes.

  “Netaia!” a male voice roared.

  Lant looked up and saw the face of one he knew, a person whose visage brought back poignant and powerful memories from many revolutions past —

  “Ketall,” Lant said, the name heavy on his lips.

  Ketall had been an angry, calculating young man last time Lant had seen him, but he had also been insignificant, really, as Lant himself and Monteray had been. Ketall, however, sought the company of powerful men. Painfully, Lant observed that he’d found it.

  “Netaia Lant,” the man said in a language that was neither Rieevan nor Fultershier. “How often I have imagined the pleasure of meeting again...”

  “I don’t know that I’d call this a pleasure,” Lant replied in the same language, bringing his sword around to bear.

  “You did not exaggerate the beauty of your valley. I shall enjoy living here. A pity that, like you, I cannot abide your people.”

  A flash of anger and regret lit Lant’s eyes. His grip visibly tightened around his sword. “Things change,” Lant said, his voice dangerous.

  Ketall looked him over. “Clearly.” Then he glanced around the Great Hall at the bodies of the dead. “You should not have tried to turn them into something they were never meant to be.” He waved his sword over a Cant soldier. “To be a warrior, netaia, is an honour bestowed upon my race.”

  Lant met Ketall’s eyes. He did not speak.

  “You, however,” the big warrior continued. “As much as you are like my people, in one thing, I am like yours — I, too, like my solitude. And after tonight I shall have it.”

  “I am still standing,” Lant pointed out.

  “We shall see for how long — ” And Ketall struck.

  At the opposite side of the Great Hall, Nien, Joash still at his side, continued the fight for their lives and the lives of their family.

  Having successfully moved his family to the rear of the Great Hall, Nien risked a glance down and saw what he was hoping to see — a heavy woolen rug. Kicking at it, Nien elbowed his father and pointed. Joash glanced down and saw a set of trap doors. With his foot, Nien flipped open the large metal latch that secured the doors shut. Forming a circle around Reean, Joash motioned for her to open the doors and go through. Reean dropped to her knees and pulled them open.

  With racing heart, Nien counted the seconds. Only a few more and his family would be through, they would be safe —

  A shout shattered his hopes.

  Nien spun. They’d been spotted. Joash looked back at his son —

  “Go!” Nien yelled. “Go!”

  Anguished, Joash shouted, “No!”

  “Go now!” Nien cried, and turning, ran pell-mell into the oncoming Ka’ull. Steel blade fell upon steel blade. Nien parried and came back up, struggling to keep his balance upon the blood-slippery surface of the hall’s stone floor. The Ka’ull blocked it and made to move in again, but Nien was too quick for him. The man fell on his ass beneath Nien’s counter, his sword thumping him in the face. Nien stepped in to finish him, but his sword locked instead with another Ka’ull who’d stepped in around the one who’d fallen. The Ka’ull circled Nien’s blade and shoved him back. Nien’s blade slid off the Ka’ull’s sword but managed to clip the man’s arm. By the time Nien came back around the Ka’ull had pitched to the ground and Nien’s strike found nothing but air. Where the Ka’ull would have been standing, Nien now had a clear line of sight to the far side of the hall. There, he found Commander Lant. Unexpectedly, the Commander looked up and saw him at the same time. And then Nien felt another set of eyes upon him — those of the Ka’ull standing opposite Lant. Nien felt the warrior take him in, watched him turn his head back to Lant. Understanding shot Nien through: Commander Lant and this warrior know each other — personally. Older than Nien himself but younger than Lant, the Ka’ull warrior was a man of impressive height and build. His battle dress set him apart from the other warriors. His hooded cloak was not made of the same heavy fabric as the rest but a rich black leather and, beneath, his armour shone like a silver moon. It took only an instant to see quality of the material and the craftsmanship that had gone into constructing it.

  He’s the leader, Nien thought, of this Ka’ull Tenkt’tla shock troop. If Lant and I can kill him...

  Glancing back to assure himself that his family had safely made it through the trap doors before moving to join Lant, Nien was hit with a crush of agony so complete every other consideration vanished.

  At the edge of the opening that would have meant life for them, Joash and Reean lay. Fey had either fallen or been torn from Reean’s arms and, beside her, his body hanging halfway into the darkness of the tunnel, was Jake. They weren’t struggling to survive, or escape. They weren’t — they hadn’t — called out to him.

  Unable to move, it took Nien’s mind an eternity to comprehend what he saw. When it did, he rushed forward. But his foot landed upon the oddly thick hand of one of his murdered people and he fell, his sword hitting the cold stone floor of the hall with a pealing clang.

  From where he’d hit the stones of the castle floor, Nien started to scramble up again, only to find that he had fallen just short of where his father lay.

  “Father!” Nien crawled forward and gathered Joash up into his arms.

  Joash’s eyes fluttered open. “Son.”

  Nien could see that his father, the Mesko Tender, had stood alone, without a weapon and bare-fisted.

  Nien grasped the back of his father’s head in his hands. “Fa, Fa...”

  Joash’s eyes lost their focus.

  Nien pressed his head into his father’s broad chest as Joash’s life slipped away. A sob ripped through Nien’s gut and his body convulsed.

  Unwilling to let go, Nien slipped from the bloody reality all around him and chased his father into the black.

  “It’s evident you are still the best of this sad people,” Ketall said as he and Commander Lant once again locked swords. They were both stumbling over the bodies of the dead; Lant was the only Rieevan in the Great Hall still on his feet. The rest of the Ka’ull warriors had begun to fan out. Most moved out of the Great Hall, presumably on the hunt for escapees. Those that remained in the Great Hall were dispatching the wounded but still living. “And how is our friend Letayin Monteray? Has he, too, retired to his small, perfect valley? The one called Legran?” Ketall asked, and then shook his head not waiting for an answer. “The two of you could have been so much more.”

  Lant met the dark, familiar eyes. “Like butchers?”

  Ketall laughed. “Have you always had such a low opinion of me? We were once such good friends.”

  “You never understood friendship, Ketall. Not really,” Lant replied.

  It seemed Ketall was momentarily stung. “I will hate to have to kill you.”

  Lant looked back at him. “It will take more than words to accomplish it.”

  Through the incomprehensible sound of the dying and the heavy beat of running feet over the stone-laid floor, it was the faint brush of a robe across the back of Nien’s leg that brought him back from oblivion and re-engaged his battle brain.

  Silently, Nien eased Joash to the floor. Moans had begun to fill the Great Hall. The only sound of battle, however, that remained was at the far side of the hall from where he lay: Commander Lant and the leader of the Ka’ull, he assumed. Tightening his grip about the blood-grimed hilt of his sword, Nien took a moment to listen. From his peripheral vision, Nien could see flashes of the dark Ka’ull
robes, could tell they were following the sounds of the wounded, and finishing them off. His blood began to boil. There was nothing he could do now. Nothing. But he would kill as many of the bastards as he could before he went. And with any luck, he and Commander Lant could fell their Commander as well.

  Nien drew a very slow, very steady, breath listening. Boots drew near to where he lay and Nien counted the seconds…

  Coming to his feet like a leviathan rising from the depths of a great sea, Nien swiveled his sword beneath his elbow and drove the Ka’ull through before the man realized how close he’d drifted to a man who, a moment ago, had appeared quite dead.

  Nien did not look behind to see the man fall. Lifting his shoulders, he brought his sword around in front of him and grasped it with two hands —

  He was just beginning.

  Blind with tears, blood, and rage, filled with only the barest of animal instincts, Nien rushed the nearest Ka’ull he could see — and split his skull open. The Ka’ull hit the stone floor with a heavy thud, the eye that was left frozen in dismay.

  Besides the one with whom Commander Lant fought, only nine Ka’ull remained in the hall…

  Four of them turned their attention to Nien.

  Watching them come, something stilled in Nien’s chest. Fear fled. Hope vanished. He lifted his sword and waited.

  From the first pealing clang, through the twists, rising blocks and glancing blows, stumbles over bodies of the dead and the final thrust, Nien felled all four before a single strike found its mark.

  With only a flashing comprehension of a fifth Ka’ull, a white light struck Nien’s vision from him and dropped him to his knees.

  Everything went strangely quiet, and he was fell forward, waiting for the Ka’ull to step in and finish him. As the moments ticked by and that didn’t happen, Nien wondered why, and then realized he couldn’t feel his body. Panic touched off inside of him. Through the one eye he could see through he took in the warped view of the Great Hall from the floor…

  His world had been laid open. It was over. Ended. Nothing left. He thought he should feel sorry about it. And then, into the fissure in his head, flooded a deep exhaustion. It filled him and began to sink, dragging him muscle-by-muscle, bone-by-bone through the floor of the Great Hall, the cold, frozen ground beneath it, into a depth Nien imagined to be populated by fantastic tunnels and stones and rock, and finally through the bottom of the planet, stretching him out till he laid flat and heavy, like smelted ore, indistinguishable from the stone upon which he lay. The sight in his one good eye blurred, tracking his trip down through the world.

  With the fractured side of his face pressed into the cold stones, sticky under his cheek with blood, his sight steadied once more. The still, rent bodies of Joash, Reean, Fey, and Jake filled his eyes. Beneath him he felt something lift, as if the castle itself were trying to breathe life into him, and he managed to raise his head — a fraction. But the effort slipped away in a whisper, spilling out through the wound-void in his skull.

  All thoughts fled except for one. Nien’s mouth moved but he had no voice…

  Wing. Run.

  His head lolled back then as darkness crept from within and ate away at the light behind his eyes, swallowing him into an unforgiving black.

  Ketall stepped away, then came back in.

  Again and again Lant’s sword clashed with Ketall’s, neither gaining the advantage, enervation turning Lant’s bones to ash.

  Enough. Enough! Lant raged at himself. It was too late, too late for everything. But he would not let Ketall walk away with his life.

  Their two swords struck deafeningly. Ketall countered, but only just. They came together once more, this time falling into each other and stumbling sideways. With their swords and bodies locked in a chimeric embrace, Lant moved to disengage but Ketall had reached down and withdrawn a short dagger. As the two fell apart, Lant gasped and reached for his side. When he withdrew his hand, it was covered in blood.

  For a moment, Ketall lowered his defenses, certain that his small, thin blade had finally ended their fight. But Lant faked a stagger, and with his sword hand in a tight grip upon the hilt, placed his left palm upon the pommel, turned his right hand over, twisted the blade to his right, and drove the point of it through Ketall’s chest.

  A surprised look of fear spread briefly across Ketall’s face as he sunk back, his knees buckling beneath him. He hit the ground hard and clutched at the leather cross-harness he wore.

  “I...” The look of surprise on Ketall’s face dropped quickly. “It looks like we both get what we want,” he managed to growl out through a throat filling with blood. With a frightful effort, he forced himself to cast his eyes around the Great Hall; rubbing the devastation in Lant’s face. He tried to laugh. “You’ve killed me, but your people are dead. Your valley, your home is still mine.” Ketall drew his last breath. “How, I just, I always knew it would be you.”

  Lant withdrew his sword and let Ketall’s body slump to the floor like a discarded child’s doll. Stumbling with exhaustion, Lant raised his eyes and looked around.

  Surprisingly, the hall was now emptied of Ka’ull. He, alone, stood in the Great Hall. Scanning the carnage, his eyes froze upon the sight of his First. Nien lay still as stone, not far from his family.

  Fighting back a pain far worse than his wound, Lant sunk to his knees. Pressing a hand against his side, he began to crawl.

  Chapter 44

  All Torn Asunder

  L ant staggered out from beneath the castle. The cover of darkness was complete as he made his way through the Village. All was silent except for the howling of the wind.

  Falling again and again in the light dusting of snow over the ground, Lant continued to pull himself back to his feet. In this miserable way, he made it across the Village and to the Cantfield hut at the far edge.

  Coated in mud, melting snow, and blood, he dragged himself inside and collapsed into the chair behind his desk. The wound in his side throbbed unmercifully. In an attempt to assuage the pain, he pressed his hand against it. His mouth fell open and he gasped for relief.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, they sprung open a moment later as someone entered the hut. Lant started to his feet, surprising the intruder as much as the intruder had startled him.

  “Father?”

  Lant fell back into his chair, his breath escaping him in a hiss.

  “Father!” Pree K rushed around the desk.

  Lant reached out with a blood-streaked hand and grasped his son’s arm. “Pree K,” he breathed. “Son…” His voice was choked with pain but also relief.

  Pree K fell to his knees at Lant’s side. “What’s happened to you?”

  Lant swallowed and released his grip on Pree K’s arm as Pree K began to probe his side to find the source of the blood. Lant winced when Pree K found it. Lant could feel Pree K pull the shirt aside — no doubt trying to assess how extensive the injury was in the dark.

  “Who did this to you? What’s going on?!”

  Lant pushed his son’s hands away from him. The wound was mortal — nothing either of them could do about it.

  “Son, there is something I need you to do for me...”

  It was only the morning after his family had left for the festival, but being inside the house was claustrophobic and miserable, so Wing had taken a walk out to the fields to place one more row of winter challak, check on those he’d already planted, and perhaps lay out his plans for Kive rotation and planting.

  In the predawn moonsteps Wing stood, hands on his hips seeing, beneath the snow, the perfect lay of future rows in his mind’s eye. In his palm, he held a handful of seeds taken from the barn. They were a mix of winter challak and a hearty brevec, and though he did not expect them to take heart in the cold soil, they were older seeds and would not retain their life force beyond the following revolution anyway. Bending down, he dug his long fingers through the cut of ice and snow to the dirt beneath. Bringing a small pocket of the frozen dirt to his nose he breat
hed deeply of it, loving the taste it left in his mouth. Wing glanced up at the high peaks of the mountains. Illuminated surreally by a heavy canopy of cloud, they stood as bright beacons against the first pale rays of morning.

  In not too many turns Ime would begin to feel the creep of Kive. The hard pack would slowly start to sway: A tiny trickle at first, then a stream, and finally a rushing river, racing down from those high peaks, carrying water into the valley and his irrigation channels, bringing life to the seeds he would sow and then the bright young plants.

  Wing breathed deeply of the fresh, revitalizing air, noticing that storm clouds were building over the Ti Range. The clouds were building fast, moving up from the gulf of Preak — so a warm storm — one that would probably bring a mix of rain and snow into the valley.

  Wing decided he would not stay long in the fields; he had no desire to be wet and then frozen. Pressing a handful of seeds into the dark soil, he heard behind him:

  “WING!”

  The cry echoed across the fields.

  Wing came to his feet in one swift motion, startled. He’d never heard his name called with such urgency.

  His fist unknowingly clenched upon the last of the small seeds; he took a step toward the voice. Unable to discern anything more than a mere shadow on the horizon of fields, he squinted into the pale-grey light bleeding over the cusp of mountains. The wind pressed against his back; the storm was picking up speed.

  “Wing!” came the cry again.

  Wing took another step forward, straining to clarify the source of the call.

  Lightning flashed. In the brief glow of heavenly light Wing was able to decipher the visage.