by Jeffrey Hall
She fell without a sound. Dead.
The other onlooking members of Proth’s Prodigy turned.
Carry kept talking, pointing his knife from across the cavern. “A participating member in this treachery against our kingdom. Kill him and be careful about it.”
The others behind Requiem entered the chamber. They fanned out to either side of him, recognizing the fight at hand, brandishing the meager and makeshift weapons that they had picked up along the way: stones, thick sticks, and the blade Grey wielded.
“What is this?” snarled Glassius, looking from Requiem to Carry and the others and back.
“The ones responsible for sacking your king’s caravan.” He pointed to the thug who’d been captured during Requiem and the others’ raid on the supplies headed to Glimmer.
The thug smiled slightly, the same revelation coming to his face as he met eyes with the others.
Glassius had little time to ask any other question before Proth’s Prodigy was upon them.
Requiem met the first of them with Ruse. The weapon severed the thug’s poorly made axe at the hilt, severing the wood and striking him in the neck, felling him as he ran. Another brute of a man was right behind him, swinging with a sword as wide as his leg. Requiem caught the strike in his crossguard and turned it away, leaving the man’s torso exposed. He drove his fist into his abdomen, forcing a grunt from the thug’s lips. He doubled over and Grey was there with his own weapon, slashing down across the man’s shoulder, sending him to the ground in a streak of blood.
Beside them, Glassius was wrestling on the ground with another, using a thick piece of wood to throttle the man as he forced himself on top, while still the other soldiers of glimmer engaged with Proth’s Prodigy.
And over it all Requiem heard Garp shouting, “Do you hear it! Do you hear it!”
He glanced behind himself to see Garp on his knees, throwing his hands into the air as if he were praying to some hidden god while Sasha stood near him, holding him back should he try to run into the fray in his crazed madness.
With his eyes away from the fight, he did not see the arrow coming for his abdomen. It struck his stomach, piercing his armor and then his skin. He grunted and fell to one knee, clutching at the wound and bringing his hand up to see blood.
He looked out across the fight to see one of the thugs nocking another arrow on a short bow.
“Archer!” shouted Grey.
“See ’em,” growled Requiem. The archer let another arrow fly. Requiem brought up his blade, trying to strike it out of the air before it could connect, but missed it completely. The arrow fluttered by his ear so close he could feel the wind against his hair.
Grey tried to engage the archer, but was intercepted by another fighter. Instead Requiem lumbered forward, pushing a dying man in his way down to the ground as he did. Two other thugs met him simultaneously, becoming the barrier he needed between him the archer. One with a club, the other the one with the axe that had been upon the girl’s throat. One swung high, the other low.
Requiem brought Ruse to meet the axe, but let the club swing into the armor on his thigh. The strike rang throughout his body, sending him to the ground. Both men stood over him. He kicked the one with the axe away, but the club fell. He rolled, the movement snapping the shaft of the arrow still embedded in him and sending a new wave of pain over him as the tip jostled. But the club strike hit the cavern floor. The man swung again, but dropped before he could follow through.
Glassius appeared behind him, a bloody stick in his hand, his own face scratched and bleeding from the fight.
“Behind you!” shouted Requiem.
The thug with the axe swung. Glassius jumped. The axe missed entirely, the momentum of the man’s attack exposing him. Requiem brought Ruse into his side, running him through. His axe fell to the ground in a clatter, allowing Glassius to pick it up. He offered Requiem his hand next. Requiem took it and regained his footing just as the archer let loose another arrow. This time it was not aimed at him.
“Grey!”
The arrow hit Grey’s back, dropping him to one knee as he circled another member of Proth’s Prodigy. The man he fought brought his dagger in a wide swoop and jammed it into Grey’s ribs, causing the old man to grunt and grab his enemy’s arm. He brought up his own blade and thrust it into the thug’s belly. His assailant dropped, losing his handle on the dagger, leaving it embedded in Grey’s abdomen as he fell away. Grey clutched it, looking down at the new wound, not daring to pull it away. Behind him, the archer was loading another arrow.
Requiem made a quick slash with Ruse. A wave of force shot through the air, blasting across the cavern and sending the archer slamming to his backside. A new wound opened up on his upper back. It felt like the lash of a whip. He fought to stay upright and charge the archer before he could regain his footing.
The archer was just standing when Requiem met his head with a running slice, cleaving the man’s temple. He stood over the dead man, inhaling, exhaling. The moans of the dying and injured sounded all around him, noises only drowned out by Garp’s constant ranting. That, and Carry’s threats.
The leader of Proth’s Prodigy was the only one remaining now. Two Glimmerian soldiers and Glassius had cornered him in the chamber. He had a dagger in each hand, two weapons made of a white metal Requiem didn’t recognize, but one that sparkled even in the darkness.
“Do you think you can stop what’s happening? Do you think can go against the weight of a kingdom? Of a king?”
“The Elder?” said Glassius. “Is he involved in this?”
Carry just smiled and spread his arms to either side. “Everyone is involved. We’re creating a new world.”
Carry sprung. His movement was so quick that it caught one of the Glimmerian soldiers off guard. He struck the man in the neck, killing him instantly. The other soldier met him with a dagger of his own, but Carry kicked him away, but Glassius was there to step in and chop him in his chest so fiercely it sent Carry to the ground.
The man grunted and spat, tried to fight away the axe, but Glassius was too powerful, and just drove his weapon deeper into the man’s breast.
“My work is done. My work is done. It’s done.” Carry spat blood onto Glassius’s shin. The commander withdrew his axe and then brought it once more into the man’s chest, killing him.
Requiem stood with the others, facing the dead leader of Proth’s Prodigy. Pain roared from his wounds. He tasted blood on his lips. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow and pulled it away from his skin, thanking his armor for keeping it from going any deeper. The pain was instant, but he had felt plenty of it before thanks to the scar stone’s share.
Only the sound of Grey nearby, coughing and sputtering, took his attention from his own pain. The man was on his knees, attempting to pull out the dagger, but Sasha was already at his side helping him.
“It’s going to hurt,” she said.
Grey nodded.
Sasha pulled. The dagger fell to the ground in a clatter. Grey fell onto her lap, holding his wound. His face looked pale. Ghostly. As if he were in transition to the afterlife.
Sasha stood to attend to the other wounded soldiers, but Requiem grabbed her arm.
“Is he…?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head.
“There must be something that can be done.”
“Not for him. Now let me go.”
Blood was sliding from the man’s lips like his mouth was a fountain in some city square. The arrow still in his back bent, but did not break as he lay upon it. Grey met Requiem’s eyes and reached out with his bloody hand.
Requiem gave it to him, and Grey pulled him close. “After all of it, I’m nipped by some back-alley criminal. Wars. Monsters. Countless miles on an unforgiving road, and it’s a damn thug fanatic who put me to the dirt. My brother will laugh when I tell him.” Grey coughed.
“You’re still breathing.”
“Borrowing breath is what I’m doing.” He pulled Requiem closer.
“You ain’t a man that cares ’bout forgiveness or needs it. But if you want mine when we meet again, you watch over him.”
He nodded towards Garp, who was still on his knees, but now silent, watching the two of them converse in their bloody embrace, as if somewhere behind his mask of madness he understood what was unfolding before him.
“Cure him. Take care of him. No one else will. He means well. You know it. You’ve seen him. Deep down. He’s good.”
“I know it,” repeated Requiem.
“Then you’re good.” Grey released him from his grip and patted his chest plate. The blood on his hands stained his armor like a tribal paint meant to prepare him for war.
“She’s still alive.” A boy’s voice came and it sounded surreal amongst the violent noises that perpetrated the chamber.
Requiem turned, and there, standing over Dash, was Mum Casara and the boy who translated for her, both cradling the fallen girl’s head. Blood covered her throat. A deep wound ran across half of it. Her eyes were open, though she looked as though she may close them at any time and succumb to her injuries.
Carry had started to kill her, but didn’t finish. Requiem and the others had arrived just before his dagger could work across her flesh.
Sasha appeared beside them, leaning her back down to the ground. She was already rummaging through her bags, applying the leaves of plants to the wound.
Requiem joined her. “What about her?”
“The wound is deep. If they hit the artery she would have been dead by now. There’s a chance.”
“Then make it better than a chance—” He stopped his words when he saw Sasha’s face looking back at the entrance. He followed her vision to see the lone figure standing in the fissure, only a few yards away from where Garp still knelt, stupefied and silent.
Its black cloak hung around it, like the wings of a perching vulture waiting for the dying to die to begin its feast. Its hood hung low over its face, but not far enough to hide the red chin that peeked out below it. How it could see at all, Requiem had no idea. In one hand it held its black blade, weapon that looked more spear than sword. The same white jewel they had seen flicker above ground stared back at them like an unblinking eye, hungry and on the hunt. On his shoulders sat the lizard, its eyes now dilated as they looked past the group and to what awaited them on the floor of the chamber.
“The girl,” it said in its monotone voice.
Requiem glanced down at the girl still lying in the middle of the chamber. She was the only one unattended. Forgotten and barely alive. An unclaimed prize to the victor of the violence that broke out around her.
Requiem almost said, “No,” but caught himself from saying it. If he did then he was sure that the figure would decimate them as it did with the buildings above ground. Instead, he swallowed and mumbled, “She’s all yours.”
Sasha looked at him in horror. He knew what ran through her mind. Here you are again. My selfish once-husband. Only concerned with himself. Only wanting things to be easy. Not caring to finish what he started.
But this time he shook his head at her, hoping to silence her roaring thoughts, and stepped towards Garp, where he pulled the stunned man aside, clearing the way for the figure to come retrieve the girl.
Others followed suit. Sasha, the boy, and Mum Casara pulled Dashinora away. Glassius helped a wounded soldier to the edge of the chamber.
“What are you doing, Requiem? Good men lay in their own blood for this girl and you let her go?”
“Let it have her.”
Glassius just chewed his lip, staring at Requiem and then back at the figure.
Once the path was clear, the figure walked forward, slowly, dragging its weapon along the ground, tracing a line in the dark stone of the cavern floor. He walked through blood, stepping over the fallen bodies of the thugs and soldiers who’d died in the recent combat. Though Requiem could not see its eyes, the direction of its head said it did not look anywhere but at the girl.
It passed by Requiem. He could smell it. It smelled like rain and earth, reminding him of the time he’d spent in deep mines.
Images of home swarmed in his head and he felt strangely calm, though his heart thrummed and his hands were clenched tightly around his blade. Somehow he expected the thing turn around, take off its hood, and unveil a friendly face, another Scarred perhaps, one who had stumbled across some new and incredible power.
But when it reached the girl, it simply stopped, looked down, and sheathed its weapon. It lowered itself, stiffly, as if somewhere it was being puppeteered with invisible strings. It stayed there over the girl, looking down at her, turned its head slightly as if to confer in private with the lizard on its shoulders, and to Requiem’s surprise began to fish in her pouches.
And Requiem, assured that it was temporarily weaponless, raised Ruse. He slashed the air quickly, making three fast strikes, slashing a “Z” in the open space.
The powerful spell crackled as it left his blade. The whip of forceful fire fled from him, rushing towards the figure’s back. It turned as it came, bringing up its blade just in time as the magic hit it.
The fire broke around it, but the impact was too strong. It sent the figure, lizard and all, sprawling into the back of the cavern.
A wound blossomed over Requiem’s leg. He felt it grow from the bottom of his thigh, through his abdomen, flirt with the wound of the arrow, and end just below his chest. It was deep and strong and sapping of energy, of which he had very little to give.
“Glassius,” he growled as he came to one knee. “The girl.”
Glassius didn’t hesitate. He ran, scooped up the girl, and fled towards the opening.
“Come on, you fool!” shouted Sasha at his back. “Stand up!”
He felt her hands on his neck as she hoisted him upright. He allowed himself to be carried away. His eyes swam from exhaustion and pain. Somewhere in his dizzying view he saw the others on the other side of the opening, waving them forward, but it was Garp, who still stood dumbfoundedly, who suddenly came to life as they approached.
“It rises!” he shouted. “It comes!”
Requiem looked over his shoulder. The figure had come to its knees and gathered its sword. Its head hung down to the ground as if dazed, but it was only to allow the lizard to climb lazily back to its perch on the figure’s shoulders. Slowly it came to its feet as if being helped upright by a hand they could not see. And as it raised its head, its hood fell back, and there, at last, was its face.
If one could call it that.
There were barely any features to it. It was a mask of blood. One featureless shell, shallowly rutted like it was crafted from a slab of wood. There were no eyes. No ears. No mouth. The only thing visible were two holes set near one another in the same place where a nose would be.
How it saw, how it knew where to look, Requiem could not say. But yet it clearly turned its head to them and raised its weapon.
Requiem braced for the impact of the thing’s terrible blade, raising his own in hopes of using it to defend against a magic he could not understand or compete with. Yet before the creature’s blade could fall a set of hands wrapped around its waist and dragged it once more to the floor.
Grey’s face appeared above the cloaked figure, bloody and pale, yelling.
Requiem’s shock and pain delayed the man’s words from reaching him until he blinked and heard them clearly.
“Help me hold him.”
Requiem almost ran in to abide, but then he noticed Grey’s finger flash up to the ceiling, before falling back down to pummel the cloaked figure.
Rows of stalactites existed overhead like the tops of a trap about ready to be sprung.
“Do it!” shouted Grey. And their eyes locked between that distance, amidst that tumultuous fight. “Stone was always gonna be my coffin anyways!”
The figure finally found its footing and shrugged him off. The man crashed into the wall, but held onto the thing’s cloak, sending it off balance.
Requiem
knew there wouldn’t be much time before it gathered itself, destroyed the nuisance that was Grey, and carried on with its hunt.
He gathered his strength, pushed aside the pain roaring over his body, and cut the air. He brought Ruse up twice, drawing an X from the bottom, making four slashes in the air, bleeding the magic into existence, and then slashed down the middle of the strokes.
A boom broke over the chamber. The earth shook. A blue line ran out from the tip of Ruse like a charging army of elemental figures. It crashed into the ceiling, pummeling the stalactites with a force so potent that they exploded at their base like they were pods of fruit that had just been popped. The ceiling fell. Pounds and pounds of stone rained down upon Grey and the figure.
Grey’s eyes closed as a rock the size of a man fell atop of him and wiped him from view.
Garp screamed. A terrible noise that filled Requiem’s insides with dread. A noise that followed Requiem into the darkness as he felt a terrible pain emerge at the bottom of his foot, shoot up his body, and reach for his head.
Chapter 23
“Papa?”
Little hands prodded his cheek. They felt sticky. Wet. Like the stalks of grass on the Soggy Plain, a place he once hunted tralvenden for a local magistrate. A place he once rested his head. But he was not in some distant land. He was home.
Or at least at the place he called home.
“Papa?”
His lids slid open. The darkness presented him a small figure barely outlined in the moonlight that poured in through the window, white and radiant like strands of an angel’s hair. He sat upright, reaching for Ruse, which lay beside his bed. He grabbed the hilt and brought it forward, but stopped from drawing it when he realized the figure recoiled from his sudden movement.
“Mote? That you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
“What did I say about sneaking up on people?”
“Not to do it.”
“Then by the Abyss, why did you?”
He went quiet, and Requiem could see him slip towards the door, fleeing his anger.