by Casey Eanes
Aleph, there are too many of them. Willyn’s mind searched for solutions, when her com lit up with a familiar voice.
“Get out of here, little one!”
Her heart slammed in her chest. Bri.
An open bed transport pulled next to Willyn’s rook. Bri stood in the back with a mounted fifty-caliber deck gun. Bri’s weapon blazed as he called out to her, his jumbled language barely audible over the roar of mortar and gunfire. “Did you not hear me? Get out. You must get to the Red City!”
“I’m not leaving them, Bri, not like this!” she screamed.
Despite the shockwave of sudden force, the Reds were regaining some control. The morels drifted back, but the margins of containment were painfully thin. Arakiel the Defiler charged, barreling toward them like a freight train, his light linen robes blazing in the hot desert wind. He carried only a heavy staff. No matter how many rounds the Reds unleashed, Arakiel could not be stopped. He madly swung his staff as he burst through their formation with sheer rage. His eyes blazed like burning rubies as he slammed his weapon through the machines, vaulting himself over the front line and into the middle of the force. He ripped through the companies in seconds, tearing five of their rooks to shreds with his bare hands.
He’s breaking up the formation. He’s breaking us down. Willyn’s datalink chirped chaotically as she witnessed the orderly formation crumble under the single Serub’s hands. Suddenly, two other points in the formation began to disintegrate. The other Serubs are flanking us. Aleph, help us! Willyn’s eyes darted from one side of the formation to the other, trying to locate the others.
The goddess with midnight black eyes stood over the rooks on a pedestal formed out of the living bodies. Like a conductor of a symphony, her hands extended as mobs of the soulless rushed, forming themselves into huge weapons. Willyn’s jaw dropped as she saw a school of the monsters morph themselves into a war hammer for the Serub to wield. The Serub swept her minions up and down, pummeling her enemies to the sound of crunching bones and broken bodies. With each swing, the hammer healed itself anew with more of the mindless, only to be crushed against the Reds’ rooks, again and again.
The Serub Willyn recognized from the Spire was far less exotic in her movements, but the speed at which she operated was horrific. She leapt over the fray and tore out Red pilots one by one from their machines, throwing them like rag dolls or ripping their bodies like paper. The gore of her work filled the air with a fine red mist. Each kill the Serubs made emboldened and strengthened them.
Bri’s voice cut through the fog of war as he yelled over the com. “Willyn. You must go. Make for the Red City! Take the mirror and go!”
Willyn’s heart slammed into her throat. He knows. He knows I have it. Bri had not fallen for her ruse. Willyn knew that there was little time. She would either die here or fight another day. She barked over the coms, “All units scramble to Rhuddenhall! I repeat! Scramble!” The phalanx crumbled and the rooks broke from their formation, thundering out of the valley. The morels that remained gave a furious chase, but the Serubs held their ground. Willyn swept her rook and turned for retreat, but her machine shuttered under a shocking blow. Willyn fired the engines, only to be greeted with the grinding sound of the mechanics sucking in dirt and swiftly dying.
The roof of the cockpit peeled back and Arakiel stood over the wreckage, peering down at Willyn as if she were a bird in a cage. He snarled as he smiled, his eyes burning with an unnatural fury. His voice shook Willyn’s entire frame.
“You. You have him.” Arakiel stretched his arms to the side and let out a cry that filled the canyon. Nyx and Abtren focused their attention on Arakiel as he announced the discovery of Bastion’s mirror. The Serub flashed his dagger fangs as he moved to rip Willyn from the cockpit. In one swift motion he snatched her from her seat and hurled the helmet from her head. He lifted her in the air and spat as he screamed.
“You dare try and hide our brother from us? You dare attack the divine and think you can live? You will pay for your sins, you worthless insect!”
A flash of immense heat and light burst in front of Willyn and her skin was singed with a sharp pain. The unknown impact jarred her from Arakiel's grasp and she fell, thudding against the hull of her rook and rolling in the dirt. Stunned, she struggled to her feet, only to hear Bri’s voice.
“Run, little one! Run!”
Bri stood, fixed on the back of the truck as it barreled toward Arakiel. Bri’s deck gun rattled his giant frame as it slung fifty caliber rounds into Arakiel. A rook swept next to Willyn and she was snatched into its cargo hold. Willyn screamed for Bri to turn around, but her cries fell on deaf ears. Arakiel charged Bri, ignoring the bullets slamming into him. The Serub leapt on the bed of the truck and slammed his iron staff across Bri’s back. The mighty Bagger warrior fell to the earth, his back caving with a deafening crack.
Willyn opened her mouth to scream. A choking cry tried to escape, but her body refused to give in to the storm roaring within. Bri fell to the ground in a broken heap, his size shrinking in her vision as the rook rocketed her away from the battlefield. She had failed him, and she had failed her mission. An overwhelming rush of grief crippled her. She slammed her fist against the cockpit, cursing her life and all that she had ever loved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Seam kicked at a charred corpse that littered the canyon floor as he walked toward the rook holding his next prize. The rust colored stone of the canyon was spattered with the crimson carnage showcasing his brief encounter with the Red forces. Burned and twisted rooks joined dismembered, bullet-riddled bodies, a quilted patchwork of hell on earth. The rancid smell of burned flesh wafted in the air, filling Seam’s nostrils. The smell of victory was not sweet, but it was glorious.
“Let me keep them.” Nyx’s body was spread across a pile of ravaged cadavers, like a spider guarding its catch. Her black eyes glistened with desire as she glanced up at Seam. “These will make an excellent supply for you, Keeper. You’ve seen what they can do.” She threw her sable eyes toward the hoard of Seam’s idle warriors. “You can do so much more, High King. You can accomplish so much more than you even realize.” She glanced down on the bodies of those dead beneath her. “With these supplies, your army can be strengthened, improved.” She stared at him, her eyes reflecting the smoke that filled the battlefield. “Just say the word, my lord.”
Seam turned up his nose at the site of Nyx digging through the numerous bodies of his fallen enemies. He spoke, turning his eyes from the sight, quelling the wave of nausea that threatened to come over him. “Fine. But I don’t want to see or smell them until they are ready.”
Nyx licked her lips and smiled as she closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. She exhaled and in one motion, the bodies beneath her rose to shambling life. Morels began lining in formation, stowing themselves within the transports, while a remnant of the hollow soldiers drug the remains of bodies too damaged to be puppeted. Nyx ensured nothing was left behind.
Seam stepped past the lines of morels as they set to their work, moving closer to Willyn’s rook. Arakiel was standing next to the machine speaking in the ancient tongue to Bastion, his voice painted with pride and authority.
“Te alek man zeth...” Arakiel snarled as Seam stepped around the shredded rook and peered at Bastion locked in the glass prison.
Seam smiled, confident. “I take it your brother is telling you what a gracious master I am.” Bastion’s eyes did not sway from the High King. The green glowing orbs radiated like bewitched marbles, and they followed Seam’s every move, reading him with untold curiosity. Bastion’s face remained stoic as Seam crossed his arms and leaned over the cargo hold. “I welcome you to a new Candor, Bastion.”
Bastion glanced at Arakiel, his face searching for approval. Arakiel nodded, and Bastion spoke. “I understand your ways, Seam Panderean. Your power. Count me along with the rest of my kin at your side. I only ask for one thing.”
“Name it.” Seam growled as he prepared for
yet another proposal from the Serubs. The cost was always the same, and Seam would pay that price no matter how high the cost.
“I will spare you flowery speech. I want to feed, to kill. Not one, not two. But thousands.” Bastion’s voice held a strange tenor, a voice that seemed to surround the High King from all sides. The pair of hollow green eyes blazed behind the glass. “Make no mistake. If you try to curb my desires, I will turn against you.”
Seam’s lips curled into a thin smile and his eyes narrowed as he nodded. “Your brother and sisters have already named the same price, Bastion. I am happy to pay it. There will be much opportunity for us. So bring your fear and destruction. Fear breeds order. I will ensure that there is enough fodder to keep your trough full.”
The High King pointed to the mirror and snapped his fingers at Arakiel, causing the massive warrior to bristle with curtailed rage. Seam’s voice was tinged with impatience. “Lift him from this wreck and bring him to the titan. Now, where is the last mirror, Arakiel?”
Bastion’s voice bellowed, interrupting the exchange. “Keeper. Please...it is time to release me. There is something that I must do.”
Seam paused, his mind weighing the veiled answer of the god in the glass.
The High King felt the presence of Abtren pressing in behind him. He turned and looked at her, his face full of questions. Abtren nodded, an answer for his hesitation. “It is time. Release our brother, Keeper. He will serve you well.” The Synod gathered closely around Seam, pressing in on him, their countenances filled with an emotion that the High King had not witnessed before. They are hopeful. Seam stood silent, weighing what this meant in his mind.
“Very well. I now release you, Bastion. Join my Synod. Join my Dominion.”
He extended his right hand, bearing the Keys of Candor, and reached into the glass. It gave way like water, and Bastion grabbed his hand. In one swift motion, Bastion exited the mirror, shielding his green eyes in the desert sun.
The Synod gathered around him, and Seam stood aghast as they embraced him. Bastion’s release marked something unspoken between the family of divines, though Seam did not understand its significance.
Bastion openly hugged his sisters and bowed reverently toward his elder brother who, in turn, embraced him. For the first time, Seam looked at the beings who were always on the edge to kill him in a new light, and it confounded him.
“As much as I do cherish this, there is much to be done. Bastion, you are now released, so do what you must.”
Bastion turned to the Keeper of the Keys and bowed his head in reverence. “Gladly.” Bastion stepped toward the High King, and for the first time Seam noticed the growing fangs that protruded from his face, razor sharp protrusions extending from the face like tusks.
Seam braced himself for an attack, his heart hammering in his chest. He screamed, his voice full of rage, “Come at me and fall like the rest of your kin! I do not fear your kind.”
Yet to Seam’s surprise, Bastion strode by him, sprinting for a large body lying twenty yards away. Bastion stooped to pick the carcass up and smirked as he realized the man was not yet dead.
Bastion’s voice struck out over the desert plain. “Priest of the Landless. Did you think you would leave this world so easily?” He held up the body of the large tattooed warrior. The man’s legs dangled loosely beneath him, and Seam’s mouth went dry as the Serub’s physical size expanded, his frame growing to gigantic proportions, dwarfing the man he held within his hand.
Bastion spoke, his booming voice becoming almost tender. “You...and your people surprise me, Rihtian. You deny the very gods you served for generations? Why do you betray us?”
Bri forced his swollen eyelids open, painfully turning his head to face Seam, his voice trembling, barely above a whisper. Even across the waste, Seam was struck at how bright the Bagger’s eyes were. “You can stop this. You hold Keys. Put them all back in mirror. Stop this. New start.”
Bastion laughed and turned to face his siblings. Arakiel, Nyx, and Abtren howled like beasts, but Seam felt a shift in the air radiating from the Synod. Fear.
The priest spoke, his voice calling out over the throng of laughing Celestials. The voice of the broken priest took on a new intonation, a new cadence of pure and absolute authority.
“Seam Panderean, hear now the words of Aleph, the last words that I will ever speak. You know the truth about these you have unlocked, and you know the truth about me. Your destiny hangs by your choice; your very kingdom hangs by your choice. So choose now. My will for you will be accomplished and my peace will reign over Candor.”
The Serubs went silent and pounced onto the priest, tearing his body to shreds like a pack of ravenous lions. Seam could barely register what was happening as his mind grappled with Bri’s final words.
‘Peace. My peace will reign over Candor.’
The words clawed at the inside of Seam’s chest. The word peace felt so cheap. There would never be peace, but there would finally be order which he would see to himself.
Seam watched as the Serubs gorged themselves on the flesh of the Bagger priest. The earthly remains of the man were gone in mere seconds. They turned and faced him, their faces covered with the blood of the seer. There was no joy in this kill. Unlike his private viewing of Hosp’s final demise, an unsettled nervousness clouded his thoughts and tainted his recent victory as he watched his celestial pets gorge themselves.
Abtren stepped forward, her eyes full of dancing, mesmerizing light. “Well, what is your answer, High King? Do you seek our enemy’s counsel now, or do you claim your place as the Lord and Master of Candor?”
Seam glared at them, staring at the rabid dogs he had released on the world. Heavy thoughts clouded his mind, but he spoke without pause. “There is one more mirror, Abtren. One more of your cursed kin to release. I will see this task through.” He turned to face Arakiel.
“Where is it, Arakiel? Where is Isphet’s mirror?”
Arakiel’s lips were pursed, but he spoke with little dissention. “The last mirror is one you must consider carefully, High King. Isphet has been growing in power for weeks now, by means that I cannot see. I warn you...he will be less agreeable to your lead than we have been.”
Seam turned and walked toward the Synod and stared into their terrible eyes, feeling no fear. “Less agreeable? Well, that gives me much to think about, Arakiel.” He held up the bracer that bore the keys, his eyes locking on the Serub chief. “A shame that I will have to train Isphet like the rest of you. Will you dogs never learn? Now tell me, where is the last mirror?”
Arakiel growled, and the others in the Synod bristled at the insult. “Preost, Keeper. The monks have Isphet locked in their forest monastery, if it still exists.”
Seam nodded, his eyes widening. “Taluum.” He could hardly believe it. They had been hiding the last cursed god under Aleph’s own sanctuary. “Very well. Let’s finish this. We will rendezvous in Zenith and gather more forces. Then, we make for Preost.” Seam turned away, stomping through the desert, his mind still clouded by the last words of the Bagger priest.
Peace.
Bronson sat over a table covered in empty bottles and the chalky remains of broken pills. He fought to steady his trembling hands, shaking as if hypothermia was overtaking him. He was sweating so profusely that it looked like he was baking in the heat of the desert sun. A sharp pain spiked in his stomach, and he fought to remember the last time he had eaten. Unsteady hands cupped the last few pills strewn on the table and he chewed them whole as he sat back, trying to ignore the pain searing in his gut.
The consistent, throbbing dagger of pain in his stomach caused Bronson to curse, wiping the bottles and drugs from the table. He screamed, his hoarse throat trembling and tattered. Screaming, medicating, drinking, nothing would shrink the devil that had taken residence deep inside.
He got up, pacing toward his bookcase. His hands fumbled past several books before landing on an overturned, dust-covered picture. Hot tears rolled down Bronson�
��s cheeks as he grasped the picture and fought the desire to throw it as far from himself as possible.
“I can’t.” Bronson choked on his words. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t let you see me like this.”
He turned the photograph over and stared at the bright, smiling faces of his family. The children he prayed to receive for so long stared back at him, unaware of their father’s private sins. He had fought to protect them the only way he knew how: sacrificing other lives to save theirs. Sobs overtook him as he clutched the small frame to his chest and collapsed to the floor. His tears smeared the polished floor as he balled up over the image. They are beautiful. So pure.
“Please forgive me.” Bronson could barely choke out his plea. “I did all this to protect you. I am a fool. I know you would not want this.” His eyes fell over the faces of his family.
Gods. Their eyes.
What had been the blue and brown eyes of his daughters and wife were now just hollow black voids, deep pits that swirled to some dark hellish place.
They are taking my mind. The Serubs won't rest until they destroy everything. They’re taking my body. They’re taking my mind. Soon...they will take them. My family. He stood and threw the picture, shattering the faces of his loved ones against the marble floor. His soul broke with the sound of the glass shattering, releasing a flood of misery that caused him to wail without control. He laid on the floor, a broken shell of the man he once was. He could have stayed there if not for the datalink that chirped with life. The chime was unique. Seam.