by Casey Eanes
Kull remained silent, his eyes distant but filled with purpose as he countered each of Isphet’s attacks. Isphet smirked as they fought, absorbing every titanic punch that Kull threw.
Willyn gasped for breath, fighting to drag Luken’s body behind her. The soldier that helped them escape to the ground level had left them in a panic, unable to remain any longer in Luken’s presence. He fled with the others away from the chaos thundering above. Willyn kicked open a small door that let in a flood of light. The hot desert sun cut through the fog of dust and debris rolling out from the staircase. Luken let out a soft groan as Willyn pulled him onto the asphalt street. Glass, concrete, and other rubble lined the street, and the buildings were pocked with deep craters, evidence that her Grogan comrades had managed to advance into the city center. She stood, her eyes scanning for an ally, but there were no forces to be found.
Willyn reached for her datalink, pressing to call out, but there was no response. The datalink was shattered. She cursed under her breath and threw the device off her wrist. Her mind kicked into survival mode. Every vehicle within sight was burned out or riddled with bullet holes. A deafening crack sounded, and the ground shook again beneath her feet. Nearby buildings buckled under the pressure of the sudden earthquake and fell in on themselves, filling the streets with a thick pillar of stampeding dust.
The smoke was thick and blotted out the harsh desert sun, but Willyn pressed forward, straining to see through the haze when she spotted multiple figures running through the fog toward her. My soldiers! Willyn’s heart raced as she waited for the Grogans to inch closer so they could help her in her escape.
She took a deep breath and worked to lift Luken from the ground. His legs hung limp, preventing him from steadying himself. “Willyn...no.” Luken’s voice was barely audible over the sound of the Spire’s structure groaning overhead and the ground shaking underfoot.
Willyn glanced down at Luken and found him staring out into the smoke at the advancing figures. As the first of the figures emerged from the smoke, Willyn’s eyes went wide. She drew her pistol and fired as fast as possible as a wave of morels came within feet of her position in the middle of the open street.
The morels were too many. The wall of monstrous bodies roared to life, and for each one Willyn took down, five took its place. They closed the gap separating them and Willyn braced herself for the end, but they swept past her, ignoring her position, and pressed instead for the Spire.
“In the truck. NOW!” The command was quick and the soldiers obeyed, loading Seam’s broken and bloody body into the back of an old truck. The soldiers closed the bed and made for the doors of the truck’s cabin before being shouted down. “No one else comes! I will take care of this. Find your families and leave this place. Now! That is an order.”
“You are wearing on my patience.” Isphet growled as he stepped back from Kull’s advance. “You have already allowed my worthless kin to escape and now you prolong your own death. I am tired of this little charade.”
Kull charged forward, but a mass of bodies sprang into the room and rushed over his position. A swarm of teeth and claws tore into him as the flood of morels collapsed over him like a tsunami. Kull slung his arms, smashing against anything he could hit, crushing each morel’s frail frame beneath his powerful fists, but the number of bodies continued to increase, suffocating the space within the inner room.
Isphet belted out with laughter as Kull was covered by the morel swarm, flailing to free himself from under the collective. “I should have thought of my loyal army sooner,” Isphet chuckled, reveling in the respite his new tactic provided. “Don’t worry, it will be over soon enough.”
Amid the chaos of the swarm, Isphet found Kull’s eyes. The distant gaze evaporated as Kull’s focus took hold, locking onto Isphet. Kull spoke with a quiet, steady voice into the maelstrom of death.
“Enough.”
The glow of white fire enveloping Kull intensified, and the building shook. The walls began to undulate as steel beams and concrete flexed under the radiating heat like rubber. Kull’s body was crystalized with growing white fire, destroying and pushing back each wave of morels who threatened to tear into him. Kull moved unhindered as bodies of the undead evaporated around him into pillars of ash. Kull made his way toward Isphet, ignoring all else.
Cyric strained to focus his scope on the Spire. Something had fallen through the floor of the top level, but he couldn’t get a clean line of sight. It was obvious that whatever was happening, it was violent and unending. The Spire began to pulsate, and Cyric wiped at his eyes, blinking a few times in the roaring dust and smoke. He peered back down the scope only to confirm what he thought he had seen before. The metal and glass building looked as if it were taking breaths, swelling out and shrinking back in as a bright white glow emanated from every open door or window of the building. Every window in the structure ruptured and sent a storm of razor-sharp glass shards down the Spire’s side like a black cloud.
Willyn struggled to load Luken into the cargo hold of a small, ravaged rook as the world shook around them. Quickly, she moved the weapons stored in the vehicle up into one of the supply caches to make room. Whoever’s vehicle this was, they had come prepared for war. In a flash, she moved the javes, grenades, and the assault rifle as another triumphant quake hit, tearing through the ground like a ripped cloth. It was as if the whole earth was coming apart. An explosion echoed from above as a waterfall of glass fell over them. Willyn shoved Luken safely within the back of the rook and sprinted for the cockpit. She jumped in where the front blast shield should have been and locked herself into the driver’s seat.
Her hands flew in a pattern she had learned as a young girl as the rook turned over, roaring to life. She glanced over the systems that came up, and in an instant gauged that the rook would fly, if only barely. She powered its engines up from idle and pressed the accelerator. The engines strained and let out a labored grinding noise, but the rook eventually lifted and pressed forward. Warning lights buzzed on the shattered control panel, revealing one of the onboard engines had a blown piston and was working at only 14 percent efficiency. Willyn turned away from the city’s center and pressed the war machine as hard as she could without sending the faulty engines into flames.
The vibrations coming from the city’s center intensified to the point that it created a piercing pain in Willyn’s ears. She screamed as she pressed forward, trying to escape the sudden rush of sharp pain. Buildings tumbled to her left and right until silence replaced the chaos. Every sound was muted and the heavy vibrations stopped.
Willyn checked herself, fearing she had lost all hearing but realized she could still hear the grumbling of the rook’s busted motor. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught sight of the Spire just as an explosion ripped through its core. Shards of obsidian glass and steel were spit out from the building’s belly, raining over the streets below. She gasped as the tower began to collapse. She could not look away as it came down, a terrible spectacle of destruction. Seam’s mighty and menacing watchtower had once threatened to pierce the clouds. Now all that was left was a burning crater of twisted steel and concrete.
CHAPTER TWO
“I had so many chances to kill you.”
Bronson’s words evaporated in the heat of that place, a slow burning kiln of a dry, arid land. Seam lay broken beneath him, the High King’s skin charred with deep wounds and bubbled over burns. If it were not for Bronson, he would be dead by now, a fact that Bronson couldn’t help but regret. Seam shifted below him on the desert ground, groaning as consciousness slowly wound its way over him.
“You were nothing like your father. You never were.” Bronson spat on the ground, his rage reaching a boiling point. “I was wrong to place any hope in you, that you would rise to your station as High King.”
High King. Those words once held weight with Seam, but he could not understand how or why. The words twisted in a labyrinth of unclear memories, their answer as dark to him as his eyes pinch
ed beneath the blazing sun that burned above them. Only a heartbeat passed before the pain came thundering down on him like an avalanche. Seam reached toward the unspeakable fury that roared from his left arm as his consciousness took hold. To his horror, his fingers felt the void of his injury, a severed stump where his arm had once been held intact by only a crude tourniquet. Seam let out a twisted yelp as memories rushed over him. He remembered everything.
Isphet. Spire...Kull.
Seam screamed, shuffling to stand up, only to flail helplessly in the scorching sands that surrounded him.
“Help me!” Seam gasped at the pain that rolled within him, staring at the figure before him whose face he barely recognized.
Bronson Donahue stood erect, the barrel of his pistol pointed straight for Seam’s head.
“It’s time for me to do what is right. It’s time that you pay for all that you’ve done.”
Seam shuffled back, his heels digging deep in the loose sand, struggling to find shelter from his once-trusted ally, trying desperately to weigh the words that would save his life. Seam spoke, his voice a shattered tatter of what it once was. He spoke in slow, broken whispers, “Then do it, you fool. End me and get your revenge. Make your daughters proud.” The barb of Seam’s words cut deep, even in his weakened state.
Bronson’s eyes widened, and Seam could barely hide his glee as Bronson’s rage doubled over. What came next, though, he did not expect. Bronson charged at his former master, landing the butt of the gun against Seam’s jaw with a loud, snapping crack. Seam howled in pain as Bronson kicked him in the ribs and dug his foot into his chest. The gun’s barrel flew directly into Seam’s face. Bronson held it there, his eyes brimming with tears.
He flicked the gun to the side and pulled the trigger. Seam screamed as the pistol exploded next to his eardrum, the bullet ripping through the sand only inches from his head.
Bronson stared at Seam and grimaced, “I only had two bullets, Seam. One for you and one for me. Now I have one bullet. So, tell me, which skull should I put it in? Yours or mine?”
Bronson held the gun to Seam’s temple and stared out at the horizon. Seam’s broken body shook, and his lips trembled. He sputtered, “Bron..Bronson…”
“Shut up. Don’t you ever say another word to me.” Bronson spat in his face. “And never speak my name again!” Bronson stood, staring out at the vastness of the wilderness surrounding them. He stayed like that in a moment that seemed like years for Seam, feeling the heavy gun pressed against his temple.
“You’re right.” Bronson’s voice cut through the silence. “You are absolutely right.”
Seam swallowed, his throat like sandpaper. He dared to speak, his voice rasping. “What?”
Bronson’s face was decisive. Slowly he pulled the pistol away from Seam’s head and took a step back. He kept walking backward, never breaking his gaze away from Seam.
“I will make my daughters proud. I will go and spend my last days with them for the time that is left, and I will not take another life...not even one as miserable and worthless as yours.” He stared coldly at his former master and threw his pistol several meters from the fallen king. “The last bullet is my gift to you, Seam. Use it here, or do not. I don’t care. Either way you will burn and the carrion birds will feast on your wretched hide.”
Bronson jumped into the truck and turned the ignition.
Seam stared in disbelief as his one loyal companion abandoned him. He wanted to scream out, to threaten, but there was no use. His power was spent. Bronson’s truck vanished over the dune-filled horizon, as Seam’s mind reeled with what to do. No answer came as the sun crested over him, its heat beating down on him with an unrelenting fury.
Night soon came, and with it the cold. Like a shawl of ice, the swift shift in the desert’s temperature made Seam shake uncontrollably. Each movement was an excruciating torment for the wounds that Willyn Kara had inflicted on him in the Spire. Worse than the pain was the growing void that came with the loss of the Keys of Candor. Losing them had shattered what little soul he had retained, crippling his will while also filling him with an unbridled rage. Not having them felt like someone was actively flaying him alive, and he lusted for just a shred of the power he had once had. It was this tumult within him that somehow drove Seam to crawl to Bronson’s pistol.
The weight of the gun felt too heavy to lift, much less effectively wield, but as the darkness of night fell, Seam was desperate. He began to speak to himself, his mind’s last futile attempt at survival. Can you wait? Can you survive one more night, old friend? This encouragement was not enough. Awkwardly, he managed to put the gun’s barrel against the soft hollow beneath his chin. He held it there, prostrate on the sand, knowing that it would only take a second to end it all. His finger flitted softly against the trigger only to drop the gun again as his hands trembled, refusing to cooperate.
A violent howl leapt up in the night, shocking Seam out of his suicidal trance. What the howl belonged to, Seam did not know, but his mind ignited with fear and panic. He clutched the only weapon he had in the dark, his teeth chattering. He fell back when his hand found the revolver, and he lay back, staring upward at the beautiful river of stars that paraded above him, mocking him from their elevated station. Seam stared at them all, his mind boiling with fear turned rage as his body recoiled in pain.
I hate you.
The thought took the shape of graveled words and Seam whispered at the cosmos on display, his barbed whispers directed at the only deity he had never seen. “I hate you. I hate you!”
He slammed his head back against hard, cold sand as the cloud from his breath dissipated in the night air. Memories came, swelling like unwelcome weeds in the garden of his mind. The Keys...they had kept him from these emotions as well, and now...now they came to torment him.
Pictures of his mother, his father, and his duties as a loyal prince blossomed in his mind’s eye. He saw himself as a much younger man bowing down in the temple of Aleph, laying a wreath of purple thistles as a humble offering before the Alephian monk who ministered to the family. He lit the flame at the altar, and felt the ash being rubbed on his forehead, the rune of Aleph etched upon him.
He lost himself in the low, musical chants and blessings of the monks, as they whispered in his ears the audible portions of their blessings. “Aleph’s peace be upon you, until the Keeper comes.” Even then, as a boy, the phrase had lodged like a thorn in his brain. The Keeper. The Alephian rituals were elusive in their details, their scriptures only speaking in paradoxes and half-truths, and yet in everything significant to the Alephian religion and Order there it was: The Keeper. The Keeper who will lead us to restoration. It was these mysteries that drove him to search for the truth only to come up empty-handed. The truth was a lie. That was, until he found the book. The book was his first sacred treasure. It had been given to him by someone who actually heard his questions. Someone who heard his heart’s longings and sought to answer them. Vashti.
He saw her in his mind’s eye, the beautiful Preostian girl slowly leading him down the path that had brought him some of the answers he had craved. From her he learned that there was more than one truth. The monks had lied to them all, keeping the other truths about the Keys of Candor a secret among their tribe. They kept the other gods at bay, locked from all of Candor, painting them as demons, monsters, and fallen, all while cloaking that their power came from keeping them hidden, hidden away from those who could seize it for a greater good.
A greater good? Seam recoiled at the thought. What greater good have you accomplished, Seam? A chill coursed through his veins and he shook violently against the thought. He wrapped his only good arm around himself to create some warmth. An icy wind howled over him, and the bone-chilling cold fought against Seam’s memories, shaking him back into his current hopeless reality.
Seam closed his eyes and felt his exhaustion giving way to relief. The promise of sleep wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Sleep. All I need is sleep. Somehow Seam for
ced his eyes open and fought against the impulse.
“Not yet!” Seam sat up and rubbed at his face. Something primal awakened within him, revealing the truth: To sleep here is to die. Awkwardly forcing his aching, shivering body to stand, he whispered, “Not this way. Not now.”
As Seam struggled against the weight of his eyelids, a light in the distance caught his gaze. The light was nothing more than a distant flickering nearly lost to the horizon.
Help.
Seam struggled to stumble forward, hoping to close the immense gap between himself and this possible salvation from his desert prison. After a few choppy steps Seam’s foot got caught in the sand and he crashed down, landing upon his severed arm. Pain shot up his bloodied stump and down his spine like an arc of lightning. The shock of pain was replaced by an oppressive ache that held him down like an enormous weight. He tried to scream out in pain, but his body could hardly release a low moan of agony.
The fallen king fought to focus and fight through the pain. He tried to swallow and wet his dry mouth before forcing himself back to his feet. As he stood, all that greeted him was darkness. Where is the light? Desperately, he scanned the dark horizon. His fall had disoriented him. Another flicker blinked across the midnight patchwork and Seam sighed, grateful. It was to his left, but it appeared to be closer than before. Did I cry out when I fell? Did they hear me?
Seam took four more steps forward before stumbling down the face of a small dune. He tried again to rise to his feet, but his body refused. It felt as if an anvil had been tied to Seam’s back, pinning him to the sandy soil. His brittle frame had nothing left to give no matter how hard his mind raged, trying to will himself to take one more step.