Keys of Candor: Trilogy

by Casey Eanes

  “Help!” The words rang out through the night as Seam’s ragged voice cracked. “Please!”

  There was no visible response from the light. Its weak pulse slowly plotted along the horizon, indifferent to the king’s plea. Seam dropped his face into the sand as tears trickled down his cheek, causing the sand to clump against his face. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head up one last time.

  “Please help!” The words tried to escape, but despite his best effort to shout they were no louder than the icy breeze blowing over the dunes. The silence of the desert drowned out his cries as he lay helplessly on the ground, watching as the foreign torch slowly passed by, crossing the horizon like a ship in the night.

  The weight of exhaustion pressed in and Seam slowly closed his eyes.

  Seam stood and took in the sight of his home country. The king’s feet were nestled in the lush fields of Lotte, the green grass plain dancing in the warm breeze, filling his nose with the full bloom of spring. As the moment passed, the aroma of pollen and sweet grass turned dark, morphing into the bitter smell of iron. Seam stared down at the green grass beneath his feet. It was covered in thick, bright crimson. Seam gasped as a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned only to stare deep into the eyes of his father.

  “Your feet carry death, son. Your travels lead only to the grave. Each of your steps leaves blood in your wake. The first step was over my body.”

  King Camden’s form shifted before Seam as the clear sky grew dark with thunderclouds. The figure morphed to that of a slender man clad in black, his yellow eyes peering like lanterns out from under a black shawl.

  “Did you enjoy fighting me to the death, Seam? Did you bask proudly over my corpse? Do you still finger the goblet that crushed my skull? Well then…” The assassin held out a dented silver goblet that was empty. “Drink up.” The sound of silver crashing against bone filled the night sky. With each hit the face of the specter broke into a sickening concave of gore. Blood poured from what had once been a face, only to fill the pristine goblet like a dark red wine.

  Seam turned his face away from the horror, but soon the form of the assassin disappeared and transformed into the full and beautiful form of a woman. Seam stared cautiously at her, his heart hammering in his chest. Vashti. She stood proud, her skin soft and tender, but her eyes were cold and without pity. “Was it your plan all along? To sacrifice me to the Darkness?”

  New faces and voices filled that space as Seam stood silent before his accusers. Finally, the shifting visages settled on that of a familiar face, a pale, blotchy man who sneered at him. The snake-like man stood hooded and silent, staring at Seam before leveling his charge. “We were partners, but you would not listen to reason. You calculated your every move and forced me to try to end you. Then you fed me to those I worshipped as if they were rabid dogs. You deserve to die a death worse than me, jackal king!”

  Seam’s lips were freed and his words sprang out hot with venom. “Liars!” He swiped at the mirage. “I fought to bring order. I fought to fulfill the scriptures! You all betrayed me! ME!”

  The voices ceased and the smell of blood receded. The lush hillside of Lotte faded and was replaced by a white void. A small, hunched figure appeared several feet away. The woman was huddled, crying. Seam approached her, slowly drawing closer to her frenzied sobs. He laid his hand on her shoulder and she recoiled, springing to her feet and turning to face him. Aleigha straightened her back and spat at Seam’s feet.

  “I told you the next time I saw you it would be in a coffin!”

  Seam grabbed Aleigha by the shoulders and pushed her away from him. The vision’s face morphed into another’s. Bronson’s steely eyes cut through Seam, but the visitor stood silent. Seam tried to find words. Nothing made sense and he couldn’t find the strength to piece everything together. Bronson’s face softened and his mouth crept to a familiar smile. The same smile Seam remembered from his childhood. The look was one of pity, forgiveness, and understanding, but he remained silent.

  After several minutes of silence, Bronson nodded and his mouth opened. “I told you I left you a gift.”

  The words, warm and soothing, snapped Seam back into the desert. He clamored for the cold, steel hilt of the gun Bronson had left behind. The nightmare vision swirled in his mind, and he couldn’t shake away the picture of Bronson’s face. His words repeated in his mind and haunted him as he lifted the gun, his body shuddering with each movement. He took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Fourteen percent.” The red blinking numerals were all Willyn could focus on. How far could she make it with that much fuel? At best she would cross into the Groganlands. At worst... Willyn pushed the thoughts from her mind and zeroed in on her mission.

  Escape.

  Following the Spire’s collapse, Zenith was in an uproar. Floods of people poured into the streets, fleeing the destruction. Grogan forces were sweeping deeper into the metropolis, bringing down any opposition they encountered. Friendly forces flew by, but Willyn refused to fire up the rook’s communication equipment. An empty feeling overwhelmed her. It doesn’t matter. Even if she did radio in, no one could know where she was heading. Willyn smirked as she scanned the heads-up display to find that the communications system was fried. Well, that makes it easier for me to stay quiet on the lines.

  Willyn punched the throttle, gunning the derelict rook out and away from the nightmares buried under the Spire’s rubble. Willyn flipped down a couple red switches and rotated one of the cockpit’s screens, expecting a navigation screen. Instead, the hologram projection was as useless as everything else. “Well, at least you can fly.” She glanced back at Luken lying in the vehicle’s rear chamber. The wound Isphet inflicted was deep and savage, the back of the rook pooled with his blood, which to her dismay was completely clear, as if it was made of water. His skin was pale, and the only real sign of life he offered was his random gasps for air, like a fish on dry land. He fluttered in and out of consciousness as she drove out from the wreckage of Zenith’s streets.

  Finally, Willyn pushed out from Zenith and into the desert plains. She willed herself not to look at the civilians running out into the street, fleeing from the surrounding chaos. Dominion soldiers were throwing down their weapons and retreating as wave after wave of Grogans swarmed through the city. Willyn did not have time to congratulate herself on the hollow victory. Nothing about what had happened felt victorious to her. Things were worse than ever before and there was no solution in sight. The collapse of the Spire signaled the end of Seam, only to issue Isphet into glory. Aleph above, what did I do.

  Her mind continuously looped one memory; replaying the adrenaline filled moment of landing a crippling blow on Seam Panderean. With one swipe of her blade she had ended his horrific reign. She had defeated her enemy and claimed the Keys of Candor for a brief second. Then everything came undone. She had been a pawn in the hands of a master game-maker. The memory of seeing Hagan’s face morph into Isphet’s made her shake with a potent mixture of fury and grief. She finally knew the truth; Hagan was dead and she was alone.

  Willyn conjured up the signs of her brother’s supposed survival: his messengers, his story, his voice. Everything she thought to be true was nothing more than a mirage conjured by a demon preying on her weaknesses: love and trust. He had found the one link, her one vulnerability, and had masterfully used her as a puppet, feasting on the details of her mind. In all her life she had loved and trusted no one like Hagan. Isphet had gained an upper hand and exploited it for everything it was worth.

  Willyn shivered despite the suffocating heat that surrounded her in the cockpit. The hair on her neck rose as she tried to scan her thoughts, attempting to determine if she could trust her own mind anymore. What if he is still there? Still in my head?

  Slow streaks of tears fell down her face as she drove the rook further into the desert, the loss of everything falling over her. Hagan had died for her twice over, and her old wound was ripped open anew.
Her enemy turned friend, Grift Shepherd, was gone, taken in a way that did not befit such a noble soul. She glanced back at Luken, and her mind seized with new thoughts. The small miracle of Luken being alive was something for her to cling to...but could he be trusted? Are you real? Or another trap? Willyn’s mind was a tortured maze of confusion as she tried to piece everything together, her heart pounding violently in her chest as she worked to calm herself.

  Her mind settled on realities she was sure of. Isphet was Candor’s new threat. If Isphet wasn’t killed in the Spire’s collapse, then she had no idea how to combat her newest foe. Everyone she had ever fought had a weakness, but how could she kill a god? Isphet bore the Keys and controlled the other Serubs like puppets, wielding them with greater precision than even Seam. Her mind exploded with another revelation. With everything that had happened, she had nearly forgotten what she had witnessed within the Spire.

  Shepherd’s son. What was his name? Kull. Kull had returned.

  If she had not seen it with her own eyes, she would not have believed it. The mystery of this eluded her conscious thoughts, but it was as if an invisible weight pressed in on her from all sides. Something is happening. Something has shifted. She glanced up, relinquishing the thoughts. She was deep in the desert, and her hand fell on the machine’s throttle, pressing the limits of her crude craft. It lurched, and she read the sky setting her trajectory in the direction to Rhuddenhall.

  Willyn scanned the rook’s last few functioning cameras as the smoldering remains of Zenith shrunk in the distance. The further she moved away from the charred center of Candor the more panicked she became. Her throat tightened and her chest fought for air. Her fingers tingled and felt numb as she wiped sweat from her brow and tried to ignore the oncoming anxiety that threatened to collapse around her. Her training took control with precision. Easy, she coached herself. The feeling will pass. Push through. Willyn glanced back over Luken after noticing his gasps for breath had ceased.

  Luken’s mouth was agape and his arms were drawn up. It was as if he were withering. His chest showed no rise and fall and he lay motionless. The sight was too much, hitting Willyn like an explosion. She pulled back the acceleration of the rook, and flipped open the cockpit’s busted canopy, clawing her friend from the machine. Despite his pathetic state, Luken’s frame was awkward and heavy, making it difficult for her to move him by herself. Slowly, she lowered him to the ground, belly down. His clear blood poured out and was instantly swallowed by the desert floor.

  Sand clung to Luken’s cold, clammy brow. Willyn rolled him to his back as ice cold dread pierced her heart. He’s dying. She knew this, but she did not know how to help him. The hot desert air stung her face and she choked for breath. Luken’s enfeebled state reminded her of Hagan. Aleph above. Was this another of Isphet’s horrible schemes? Did Isphet want me to take Luken? Just to torture me some more? She took a quick breath, commanding herself to steady. Focus.

  Everything was spinning in Willyn’s mind like a hurricane. Everyone, even Luken, was suspect. All of reality was suspect. There was no one left to trust, not even herself. She screamed despite her efforts to stay calm and collapsed next to Luken. She focused her breath until a single word whispered in her mind, calming the torrent of chaos within her. It was a word she had heard within her mind many times.

  Fight. The word repeated with her beating heart, refusing to dissipate. Fight.

  “You fought for me.” She touched Luken’s face, thinking back to how he saved her from the morels that night she had nearly drowned in the quicksand while searching for Grift. Only days later he had broken her out of the Elumite prison, before a grenade had sent him into the Endless Ocean. Luken had even thrown himself into the fray with Isphet, who he was simply no match for. All of this because of her. Her mind fumbled over these facts as she tried to speak.

  “I will fight for you, Luken, but I don’t know how...”

  The survival supply cache in her rook had been destroyed in the attack on Zenith. Its contents had either been blown away or charred to a crisp. Willyn rolled the one surviving food packet in her hands and sighed. The singed plastic wrap was of no use. Luken could barely breathe, let alone eat anything in his current state. Willyn retrieved a canteen from the cockpit and poured a bit of water over Luken’s brittle, chapped lips and into his mouth. The water pooled as Luken failed to swallow. Willyn cursed and rolled him to his side to make sure he didn’t choke.

  “You can’t die... you’re one of them!” Willyn slammed her fist into the sand as she tried to think of some way to make sure Luken wasn’t too far gone. She scanned the horizon as the sun began to set in the east, the red hue casting an orange and crimson blanket over the dunes before her.

  I can’t do anything here. If I don’t make it to Rhuddenhall… She could not finish the thought. I have to move.

  Luken’s shriveled frame hung over Willyn’s shoulders as she trudged toward the rook and loaded him back into place. The derelict machine seemed to groan under his weight as Willyn laid him in the back of the rugged machine. She climbed back into the cockpit and pressed the ignition. The engines chirped and died. Willyn ran back through the ignition sequence and was greeted by the coarse roar of the engine revving back to life and a red blinking light. “6%” blinked continuously on the display.

  “I thought you were over ten percent when I shut down,” Willyn grumbled as she throttled forward. “I hope we find another ride soon.”

  The sound of gunfire had not been heard on the streets of Zenith for at least four hours. The sun had fallen and shadows descended on the familiar wasteland. The city’s short-lived splendor was buried again beneath rubble and shadows, ready to be forgotten once again. The shambles of the Spire lay in a black, smoldering heap at the city’s center. Smoke poured up from the cracks between large slabs of concrete, slate, and marble like a smoldering volcano. The northern edge of the Spire’s remains slowly trembled as a slab of concrete slipped from its perch and crashed onto more debris below.

  A slender figure rose from the void left by the fallen debris and straightened himself atop the wreckage. He perched himself over the destruction and turned to observe the burned and bullet-riddled city around him. The man sneered and clicked his tongue.

  “This is all man is good for; building up and tearing down. There is never any progress, just toiling, just the rushing waves of destruction and consumption. Humankind loves death, and I will give them their fill.”

  Isphet lit from his perch and strode down the street, examining the burned-out hulls of cars, the shattered windows, and crumbling brick and mortar. After he got no more than fifty feet from the Spire’s mass, he turned to stare at the fallen monolith. He glanced to the east, then turned his gaze to the west as he pondered.

  A dark voice invaded his mind, roaring within his brain from some dark plane on the other side:

  “SEED THIS WORLD WITH BLOOD, MY SERVANT. DIMINISH LIFE SO THAT I MAY BE FREE! FROM DEATH COMES LIFE!”

  With the voice ringing in his mind, he looked to east one last time before a smile crept over his lips and he took a step forward.

  The engine alarm blared for five minutes before a new sound arrived. A loud clattering preceded a sharp thud. Willyn’s rook lost all control and slammed to the ground, sliding through the dirt. A cloud of sand and red clay surrounded the rook as it slid to a halt. Willyn’s head slammed against the console before the impact forced her back into her seat. A warm gush of blood poured from Willyn’s nose. She spat as the bitter, metallic taste hit her mouth.

  Willyn wiped her face and spun to examine the cargo bay. Luken was pressed against the back edge of the rook’s cargo hold, still curled in the fetal position. He looked worse, if that was even possible, barely holding on to life. Willyn punched the rook’s console and cursed beneath her breath. She leaned back in her seat and looked up through the top of the cockpit into the midnight sky. A haze separated her from the blinking celestial bodies above.

  Smoke. Either Zenith
’s fires are putting out a ton of smoke or a camp is nearby.

  Willyn hopped from the cockpit and examined the surrounding hills. The night air was sharp, and the wind cut into her without mercy. She walked around the vehicle as her breath clouded around her face. Without the rook’s navigation system, she had been flying blind, and couldn’t be a hundred percent certain where she was. She did know that she was getting close to the Groganlands border; the transition of sand to the reddish soil gave that much away. Her mind sorted through her options. They could stop and set out at dawn. This made the most rational sense, but something in the back of her mind gnawed at her, prodding her to move. Keep going.

  “But how?” Willyn whispered to herself.

  She opened the back compartment of the rook and watched Luken for several seconds. Relief washed over her as the cold air clouded around his face. He was breathing. Thank Aleph. It was shallow and faint, but it was enough. Without hesitation, Willyn reached over him and removed the weapons she had stowed away when they escaped from Zenith. She was careful to pull out the two long javes, as well as a belt of grenades. Finally, she grabbed the Grogan assault rifle and strapped it to her back. She inspected the weapons and weighed her options. This would have to do.

  She removed the grenades from the belt, fastening the three explosives onto the rifle strap that wrapped around her chest. She took the belt and wrapped it between the two javes, the spear points pressed down deep into the soil. Quickly, she formed a rough spider web of leather, lacing the belt wider near the points of the javes, while tightening them toward the bottom handles. She placed the crude craft down and dug her boot into the belt web, her hands grabbing both the javes’ poles. It bore her weight well enough.