by Casey Eanes
“What took you so long, Bronson?” the royal hissed underneath the hood.
Bronson struggled to find words, still startled at this sudden apparition. “My liege?” Bronson did not mean for it to be a question. Slowly, he forced his hand away from his sidearm.
“Of course it’s me.” Seam spoke with sharp, staccato sentences, “Now we cannot sit here all day. We must move. I have pressing business to attend to. Take me to the Crossroads.”
Bronson slammed on the brakes. What did he say? “Sir?” He looked behind the seat and stared over at his king to ensure he had heard correctly. “The Crossroads? Sir?”
“Am I not making myself clear, Captain?” Seam shouted, his frustration giving over to rage. “Take me to the Crossroads! On top of Trosedd’s Peak. Or am I to take it that you have not heard of it?”
Bronson stared into the dark eyes of his new king. Never in his life had he heard such a request. “Of course, my Lord.” He gunned the engine, and the heavy tires spun away from the palace.
The Crossroads? In Aleph’s name, why does he want to go there?”
The history of Vale had long been contested by the scholars and the historians, and there were many legends about the founding of the capital city. Some said it grew from being a small, peaceful logging village that tremendously benefited when the ancient Predecessor rail lines were uncovered. Others claimed that Vale was built on the outskirts of what had once been another city, Muldock.
Muldock. The very thought of it fell over Bronson like a chill that sets in before an illness. Muldock was the subject of many childhood ghost stories and tales used to frighten Valish children into behaving. The legend blossomed into a frightful nursery rhyme.
Fit for Muldock,
You Naughty Child,
Waste your days
In the Rotting Aisles,
Waiting with those dead and gone,
Unable to sing Aleph’s song.
Bronson found the rhyme disturbing and made a point never to sing it to his own children. Legends like Muldock were not to be trivialized. Most people in Lotte left history to die. Bronson always enjoyed studying old stories, but Muldock was one he wished he never read about. Whatever truth lay in the legends of that city, that truth was to be feared. Muldock was a dark and treacherous city, filled with mass public executions, wanton violence, and savagery beyond imagination. It was a city ruled by a dynasty of malicious and destructive kings, horrible enough in their own right, only to be usurped by one last terror. One of the Five. The Sorrow of Lotte—Abtren of the Serubs, cursed be her name.
Abtren, cursed be her name, along with her Serub kin, split Candor down the middle, as if it were a fat bull chosen for slaughter. They held the entire continent in their mighty grip, crushing any who dared challenge their rule, never parlaying with their enemies and reveling in genocide. Worshipped as gods by the conquered, the Serubs claimed to be the embodiment of the divine on Candor, sending the entire continent to fall into utter darkness.
Bronson hammered down the pedal of the vehicle as it sped into the night. Roadside ruins of ancient shrines blotted the landscape. These rotting ruins grew taller and taller where the three ancient trading paths finally converged. History was clear enough; the blood of humans was traded on this peak, bought and sold as a commodity in order to make amends to the conquerors. Alephian monks, in a swell of religious fervor, destroyed the temples and shrines of the dark place, leaving them in ruins. They commanded all those who served Aleph to treat the place as cursed ground, for it was still filled with a dark and twisted energy that clung to the very earth rumbling beneath the transport’s tires.
As the truck slid up the mountainside toward Seam’s destination, the road became surrounded by a thick, foreboding forest that squeezed out the moon’s soft light. Bronson shuddered as he stared out into the pitch black surrounding the vehicle. It was as if the headlights were only candles.
Seam smiled as he watched Bronson’s eyes stare out into the darkness beyond them, fear dancing on his face. “Come, come, Bronson. Surely you are not one for superstition? For ghost stories?” He let out a low chuckle.
Bronson turned; startled by the first words Seam had spoken during the long drive.
“Of course not, sir. I just can’t see a thing out this window. Even with the lights on I can barely see ten feet in front of us.”
“So, you are scared of the dark then?” Seam smirked with his arms folded across his chest.
Bronson’s reply was flat, devoid of any of the real fear hammering against his heart. “No, sir. I am simply looking out for your safety. Considering that your normal protection detail was left behind and you only have me with you, I have to admit that I am a bit concerned.”
Seam turned his eyes out the side window of the truck and stared out into the dark trees rolling by.
“Don’t sell yourself too short, my loyal Captain of the Guard. Your frets are for nothing. This trip will not take long.”
After another half hour of snaking through the black forest, the ruined features of the Crossroads began to rise around the road. At first, small toppled hovels and stacks of rubble grown over by moss and weeds were visible as the headlights glanced over them. Then they reached the mounds. The mounds of the dead, long buried in massive graves, forced the truck to weave and wind between them. Bronson’s stomach flipped inside as he wound through the maze. He wondered how many innocents were thrown into shallow graves here, buried twisted together, uncared for and unloved in this cursed place.
Following the mounds, skeletons of small buildings appeared, emerging from the darkness on the sides of the road. They were covered with thick ivy growing through their windows and out of the roofs that had long since collapsed. Some of the old buildings were hunched over, falling in on themselves, as if they were begging to crash to the ground and be relieved of their own weight.
Seam’s voice pierced the silence as the truck continued to crawl up the abandoned highway. “Captain.”
“Yes, sir?”
Seam pointed from the back seat. “I want you to bring me to the center of the ruin. There should be an old temple complex there.”
Unquestioning but full of dread, Bronson replied, “Yes sir.”
As the truck turned a sharp corner its lights revealed the square, and just as Seam had said, there lay a massive, unkempt temple, standing proudly, defiant of the decomposition that surround it.
How could this place still stand? Bronson wondered to himself. And why would the monks leave it standing?
Bronson’s eye caught a faint flicker of light from behind the red stained glass windows of the building. At first he thought it was a reflection of the truck’s headlights, but as the truck turned away the stained glass continued to flicker, and then glow.
There was a light or a fire inside the temple lighting the red panes.
There’s someone in there.
Seam opened the door and got out without a word. Bronson, in turn, stepped out of the convoy with his king. Seam turned and held out his hand.
“Stay here. That is an order. I will not be long.”
Seam slid away from him, making his way toward the door standing open at the front of the temple. He disappeared through it as he hurried into the darkness.
After a few moments passed, Bronson slid from his seat of the truck. He stood, grabbed his rifle, and headed toward the temple.
I will just as soon die before I leave my new king alone in such a place, thought Bronson as he snuck up to one of the open windows. Peering in from the safety of the shadows his fear for his king grew with what he saw.
Seam was sitting at a small fire across from a figure that was clad in a black hooded robe, very similar to his own. The two characters looked like shadows sitting across from one another as they spoke.
Seam’s eyes danced from the flickering firelight as he spoke softly with the hooded stranger. Bronson gripped his rifle and clicked off the safety, his eye aiming down the sight. He warned the stran
ger in his mind, Make one move.
Seam’s words flew out from him, “Vashti, I have something for you. I have dreamt of this day for a long time, and now I am finally able to begin the process of redemption.”
A soft, gentle voice came from underneath the stranger’s hood. It seemed to sing like chimes over the crackling fire.
“Show me, please.”
Seam reached up to his right shoulder and unclasped the hidden key he had found within his father’s royal robes. As he released the key he stood and handed it over for inspection.
“Oh, Seam. This is exciting indeed. You have done very well.”
Bronson did not lower his weapon, but stared in through the window, straining to hear the conversation and make out the identity of the stranger opposite Seam.
The long, black hood was finally lifted, revealing a stunning girl with flowing raven hair and dark skin that glowed in the firelight. Underneath her cloak, Bronson could see the purple robe she wore; the colors that came from the Realm of Preost. What in Aleph’s name is a Preost woman doing here?
Bronson did not know much about the forest people, but he knew he had never seen a woman from Preost. Her beauty, even in the dim light, was stunning. Bronson was convinced that Seam was meeting with the most beautiful woman to ever come out of any of the Realms. Her hair fell across her shoulders in intricate curls, a waterfall of midnight. Her skin was dark like mahogany and smooth like porcelain. It was her eyes, however, that captivated the old guard, causing him to feel young and full of vigor and passion. She was exquisite, and Bronson had to tear himself away from staring at her. He lowered his rifle and slowly stepped back from the window.
He chuckled to himself and let out a low whistle as he quietly climbed back into the truck to wait on his king’s return.
Vashti was quick to notice the old guard staring at her through the tall stained glass window. Even when she saw him raise his weapon, she had wisely chosen to play as if she were unaware, only pulling back her cowl to showcase her good intentions toward the young King Seam. Her strategy had worked, and the incident that could have erupted was avoided without any harm. She looked down at the key that Seam had given her, felt its weight, and twirled it in her hand. She could not believe her good fortune. Her mistress would be so pleased with her.
She stared into Seam’s brown eyes, calculating her approach toward him. With a subtle smile, she leaned in a deliberate attempt to showcase her luxurious curved features. She could tell the naïve man before her was falling for it and everything would soon go according to her plan.
“You are the High King of Vale now. We can finally progress further,” she said with a smile.
CHAPTER NINE
As the sun rose on the beaches of Elum, gulls cried in high shrills, their chorus echoing over the thunder of the waves crashing in cadence on the province’s rocky shores. The sun slid across the surface of the ocean, awakening the dark, blue body of water into a golden slate of glass. The shores of Elum were renowned by those wealthy enough to afford the journey to visit them.
The Darian family estate was a testament to the wealth and prestige of the Elum province. The complex sat high atop the cliffs over the southernmost beaches in the Realm, its marble columns standing proudly over the shoreline. One could see the structure from miles around. Flying buttresses of clear glass shot up into a sharp pinnacle, the structure taking on the same golden hue of the early morning light; a large glowing torch burning upon the water’s edge.
The Darian family’s rule was marked with deceit, treachery, and skillful machinations of politics. All of it preserved Elum in its pristine condition. The Realm had been able to avoid conflict for hundreds of years, remaining largely disinterested in the affairs of outsiders and offering resources to all of them, treasures harvested from their lush ocean whenever needed. The abundance of oil stashed in their hidden reserves was all the leverage this Realm had ever needed to maintain its own peace. However, the peace was beginning to splinter a week after Grift Shepherd escaped from the Groganlands.
Filip Darian was pouring himself his second glass of brandy that morning when he heard a bellowing roar of thunder that shook his palace’s foundation. His heart filled with fear when he looked out from his glass pinnacle to see the black cloud of three hundred rumbling Grogan rooks charging toward his doorstep. The massive army came to a rest outside the palace, as if this were a common practice. Filip stormed out of the main gates, barefoot and wearing only a silk robe. He pushed through the security guards trying to usher him toward safety. His face was flushed with pride, and a vein protruded from his forehead as he stamped toward the lead vehicle in the invading convoy. He threw his fist down on the hood of the first rook and bellowed a deluge of hot curses, waving his arms for the vehicles to shut off their engines. The convoy did not oblige the request, as the drivers continued to idle. Filip threw down his glass, which shattered upon the fine marble bricks, and held up his index finger in the air. He twirled it above his head like a mad magician as he screamed, his voice drowned out in the chaos. Drowned out or not, the command ushered out a platoon of snipers that flooded onto the roof of the palace. They lowered their weapons on the phalanx beneath them, hot pinpricks of red dots hovering over the invading army of faceless warriors.
“SHUT your vehicles down. NOW.” Filip stared through the tinted glass of the head rook. The cockpit opened and Willyn Kara removed her helmet. She stepped out of the vehicle and whispered in her radio. Immediately the engines ceased, as the red dotted pinpoints of the snipers danced on her face.
Filip growled at her, “What in Aleph’s name is this? What could be so important that you would bring a military detail to the front gates of my estate, Grogan?! I want to speak to your captain!”
“General. General Kara. Now, call your snipers off.”
Filip’s face transformed from shock to hot-faced rage, only to settle into a stern glare of disgust. He sent his hand through his thinning hair, cursed loudly, and spat on the ground.
Willyn did not back down. “Now, Filip.”
Filip snapped his fingers, and immediately the black armored sniper brigade lowered their weapons, but did not leave their post.
Filip smirked at the young general and spoke flatly to her, his patience strained. “Mistress Willyn Kara of the Groganlands. What do I owe the pleasure of...”
“Cut the pleasantries, Fillip. I am not here to visit. My sources have informed me that your family is harboring a terrorist. I want him now.”
Fillip’s anger resurged and boiled over. He straightened a short, chubby finger and pointed it right into Willyn’s face.
“STOP! RIGHT there!” Spittle reeking of alcohol flew from his mouth as he roared at her. “How dare you come to my front steps and accuse me of harboring a terrorist. Neither my family, nor the nation of Elum has any interest in giving asylum to a known threat to any of the Realms. Now I would advise you to explain yourself. The Sar must be utterly mad to send you to me like this without notice.”
Willyn’s vision went black with rage. “IT IS BECAUSE OF THE SAR THAT I AM HERE!” Immediately, she stepped back and turned away from him, caught off guard by her own response. Get it together, she thought to herself.
Recovering, she fired back at him. “I’m shocked to see you have grown a backbone, Filip. It suits you.” She smiled to see Filip bite his lip. She stared down at the short, portly magnate and spoke, “So you claim that you are not harboring the terrorist. Fine. I believe you, but rest assured the man I’m seeking is here in Elum, and I will find him. My men lost him a week ago, and I don’t have time to waste negotiating with you right now.”
“Your lack of courtesy is remarkable, even for a Grogan, Madam Kara. Let me remind you that you are in my land, and it is by my graces that you remain in my land unharmed. Hagan must be feeling very insecure to send in his forces like this. What terrorist, pray-tell, would garner such a force from the mighty Groganlands?” He stared at her, his eyes like daggers. “Tell me.
Now.”
Willyn spoke, burying the unsteadiness she felt at the mention of Hagan. “Let me be clear, I am looking for Grift Shepherd of Lotte. He is the man responsible for Sar Hagan’s current debilitation.”
Filip’s eyes widened, but his lips remained pursed as he pointed his finger back into Willyn’s face.
“I saw on my datalink about your brother, and for that I am sorry. I did not realize how poor his condition was. However, your petty war with Lotte does not concern me or my people. I will overlook your Realm’s haste and incompetence for the fact that the Sar is unable to manage his generals.” Filip spat on the ground in defiance and continued. “You have three days. Three days to find Shepherd. Now let me be clear, on the fourth day you and all these troops will leave Elum regardless of your mission’s success. If even one of your troops remains in my state on the fifth day, I will, rest assured, cut off all trade with your barbarous nation. Your precious little machines will be no good to you without my oil. Also, I will send for a formal consul from a Brother Counselor.”
Willyn laughed, “Filip, do you really think that my people are afraid of the monks? The old ways are passing away. Their influence is waning, and the faith that sustains them is losing its power.” She gripped the hilt of the pistol by her side. “Better to be equipped with guns and grit than to depend on the prayers of those old hermits. It’s nice to see that some still hold to the faith, though.” She glared at him, unflinching. “I agree with your terms. We will honor your request. “
“Good.” Filip smirked and straightened his robe as he started to turn back to the palace. His bare feet flapped on the marble stairs, amusing Willyn greatly as he waddled back to his crystal estate.
“Despite your insults and foolishness, I’m glad the Grogan people still have some mental capacity. Rest assured I want you and your men out of here as soon as possible.” Willyn continued to smile as the short ruler shot his platitudes at her. “Therefore, to aid you in your task, I am going to be sending my best scout to escort you personally through the Realm. He will not only be helping you find Shepherd, should he be here, but he will also be my eyes and ears. If you cause my people any harm, or if you cause any harm to befall on him, I will personally see this as an act of unprovoked war.”