by Casey Eanes
Kull glanced down at the Dominion insignia stitched over Callin’s left breast pocket and grabbed the patch, ripping it from the soldier’s shirt. “Long live King Camden,” Kull said as he spit on the patch and ground it under his boot.
Callin stumbled back at first, a confused look on his face before he burst into laughter. He shook his head and poked a finger through the new hole in his shirt. “Ha! Well met, true son of Lotte!”
Kull refused to blink as he stared a hole through Callin. “Now you owe me an answer.”
Callin patted Kull on the shoulder and nodded before leaning in close and whispering into Kull’s ear. “Long live Camden indeed, and Aleph save his queen, Aleigha.”
Aleigha’s name alone was a soothing balm that swept over Kull. He had found a friend in the dark, cramped railcar speeding from Zenith’s destruction. His heart sped its pace as he paused and measured his response. He pulled Bates closer to the window, in hopes that the sound of the rushing winds would disguise their conversation from any curious ears.
“There are two people I need to find,” Kull started. “Arthur Ewing or Adley Rainer, who I mentioned earlier. Both hail from Cotswold.”
Cyric flicked the charred nub of his fifth straight cigarette to the ground and lit another. His perch over the canyon had yielded many possibilities. Like a collector searching for his next prize, he rapidly scanned through his datalink feeds above the smoking ruins of Zenith below. The screen flashed up four prospective bounties, newly listed. Three of them he had long been familiar with. The Grogan girl with fiery red hair...and the High King of Zenith. Both would bring in a nice haul. The datalink carefully weighed out the probability of their locations, and whether they may still be alive. The third quarry was unknown to Cyric other than the fact that he had seen him climb out the Spire’s rubble unscathed. “Craziest thing I’ve ever seen...” he muttered to himself as the smoke from his cigarette poured from his nose. He had an active search running on the boy’s ID, but the only match seemed to tag him to Lotte, and then to Grift Shepherd.
Shepherd’s son?
Cyric shook his head and took a long final draw on his last cigarette as he weighed his options. “Supply...and demand.” Cyric knew that his choice would need to be worth it. He had lost Wael, and he couldn’t afford to lose another haul. He had his reputation to think of, after all. Pondering, he peered back down his scope at the rubble lying in the center of Zenith. Through the scope he saw another figure emerge from the rubble. Cyric’s cigarette fell to the ground, and his face went pale as icy coils of fear dropped into his bloodstream. His decision had been made for him, and Cyric bounded toward his jeep, cranking and spinning its tires through the desert. He would go north. Yes, north. Toward the Rihtian wasteland.
The winter air was cold and heavy, hanging over Kull’s shoulders as he dragged the large canvas bag behind him. The chatter of the rail station eventually drifted into the distance as Kull slipped deeper into the woods surrounding the small town of Nitra. The red hue of campfires in the border town’s square lingered on the wood’s edge as Kull paused to catch his breath. Each time he exhaled a cloud of vapor hung in the air, as the wind whipped its icy embrace around him. A shiver ran down Kull’s spine, and he pulled his thin shirt tighter over him before proceeding deeper into the woods. Callin had tried to convince him to stay and go with him to meet Ewing in Vale, but Kull knew he couldn’t do it. Not yet. He had to take this stop. He wouldn’t go any further or wait any longer. As much as he wanted to press on, his soul could not deny the calling to stop and finish his next task.
Kull pressed on for another quarter mile until the woods opened into a small glade. An oasis of flat grassland opened amidst a peaceful grove of trees. Kull gazed up at the clear night sky. Millions of stars marched overhead as the broad, pale moon cast a soft light over the field. The whistle of the railcar announced its departure as Kull proceeded further into the small patch of open land. Finally, he stopped forty paces from the forest perimeter and reached for the small shovel strapped to his shoulder. He looked down at his satchel, unable to process what he was about to do. Kull stared back up at the midnight sky and let out a sigh as his shoulders loosened and his heart seemed to relax in that quiet, private place under the night sky.
“Dad did always love the stars,” Kull said to himself softly as he began to dig. “He would have loved a quiet spot like this... Mom would have too.” The thought of Rose brought a smile to Kull’s face as a faint memory swept over him of his mother in a field of lavender. He was surprised to hear himself laugh as he shook his head. “Well, I guess she has a better view now.”
Kull looked back at the pit he was digging and sighed, “I guess you do too, Dad.” Kull could feel his chest tightening and his throat constricting with each thought of his father. Kull struck his shovel into the dirt as his grief was pushed aside by rage. He smashed the blade of the shovel into the earth, each strike more forceful than the one before, eventually building to a maddened frenzy. Kull fell to the ground and slammed his fist into the mud as hot tears streamed down his face.
“Why!? Why this? Why me?” He hurled the shovel into the field. “I didn’t choose this!”
Kull felt his world begin to spin, teetering backward before bracing himself on the lip of the trench he had dug. He tried to steady himself as he peered into the shallow grave before staring up into the starry sky. The small pinpricks of light spun into a blur as he screamed again, his heart slamming against his chest, his breathing shallow and quick. “This is not what I wanted! I was supposed to save him. I was supposed to sav...”
Kull collapsed into the muddy pit, the cold earth surrounding him. He lay there, yielding to the earth that surrounded him, somehow wishing that he, too, could disappear within it. It was more than he could take. More than he could bear.
The snap of a twig sent him bolting upward in a panic. Someone is here. He scanned the ground for his shovel so he could defend himself.
“Here.” A hand held out the shovel, the stranger’s face shrouded in the dark. “I think you might need this.”
Though Kull couldn’t see through the veil of night, the voice was unmistakable. The Key around Kull’s neck began to glow with a warm energy as the faint light it emitted confirmed Kull’s suspicions. There, standing in the field before him, was none other than Wael. His broad-shouldered frame hulked over Kull and his smile dispelled the frigid air.
“But how? Wha...” Kull spun on his heels and examined the small alcove. “How are you here? How did you find me?”
Wael let out a loud laugh, akin to one Kull would expect from his old friend Arthur Ewing. The laughter shook the ground under Kull’s feet and echoed off the nearby trees. “You still have much to learn, my young friend.”
Wael smiled as he gently turned Kull by the shoulder, pointing him to the pit. “I have always been with you, Kull. Don’t fool yourself to think you are so alone.” The two took a few small steps and lingered over the lip of the open grave. “You are never alone.” Wael nodded toward the hole in the ground. “Alive or dead, you are never alone, and I think you now know that better than anyone.”
Kull thought back to Mir, rowing with the lost souls aboard the Hunt. He remembered his mother’s warm face. Then, he remembered Aleph and his presence atop the mountains of Mir. He looked down into the grave as Wael rested his large palm on Kull’s shoulder.
“Grift is not alone either, Kull. He is with you, even now. Now is the time to bury your dead, but remember: From death comes life.”
Kull reached up to take hold of Wael’s large hand, but as he turned, the pressure of the monk’s hand on his shoulder disappeared. His grasp found nothing but the emptiness of an autumn night within a quiet field. The chill of the wind rushed over Kull, causing the hair on his neck to stand on end. He tugged at his shirt, unable to process what he had just seen, what he had just felt, but the cold wind reminded him to get back to the task.
Carefully, Kull pulled the large satchel into the
pit and started to rake dirt over it. The dirt fell with little ceremony over the canvas bag. Each shovelful hitting the bag tortured him. His pace quickened as he tried desperately to fill the grave as fast as possible.
With each shovelful Kull wept under the stars, holding onto his father’s memory. Grift was gone.
“I’m sorry, Dad!” he whispered. “I’m sorry! Please forgive me.”
A small prick of heat stung at Kull’s chest and broke through the fog of despair that was quickly settling around the grave. He looked down, catching a slight glow emanating from the Key hanging around his neck. The small distraction was enough to take Kull’s mind to a different place and brought fresh questions. He looked up into the starry sky overhead and spoke quietly into the night.
“Where are you, Dad?” Memories rushed in as he remembered the Sea of Souls, The Hunt, the vast mountains and deserts of Mir. Finally, his mind settled on a memory that brought a rush of warmth. Rose. His mother’s smiling face appeared in his mind’s eye as clear as the moon shining overhead.
Kull shivered and worked to finish his task. Afterwards, Kull slowly stepped out of the grave and steadied his shovel in his hands before looking back up at the sky.
“Hug Mom for me...” He tossed the last shovel of earth over the grave. With it he released his father into whatever world was waiting for him on the other side. “I love you, Dad.”
Kull quietly emerged from the woods at the edge of the railcar station platform. The few Baggers still at the station took no notice as they huddled around a small fire they had built in a rusted oil barrel. Kull sat quietly on a bench in the corner of the loading station and listened as the men and women chatted about the fall of Zenith.
“I’ve tells ya. I see’ze em.” The eldest of the Baggers pointed a bony finger in the direction of the eastern horizon. “Notta man. No! Demon! I see’ze em. Demon, yes!”
“Ol’ scriptars no! Stories!” The youngest of the four laughed and shrugged off the suggestion of what Kull assumed must be talk about the Serubs. “You a fool, old man. Too much drink in ya gut. You didn’t see nothin.”
An elderly Bagger woman pounced from the shadows and slapped at the young man’s face and clicked her tongue. “Dis generation don’t know a truth.” She stared at the young man with contempt as he rubbed the pain away from his shocked face. The older woman began to rip into him, “You da one who is blind. You hear the Sar? She promises us a land. A land.”
“So? What to-dey?” Kull didn’t grasp the word, but the young Bagger’s defiance showed clearly on his face.
The old woman spat on the ground. “To-dey? To-dey? Fool tinks de Sar goes to give land to Baggers every year now. Fool tinks this is normal.”
“I know dis ain’t normal, gran-ma!” the Bagger shot back, flustered at the earful he was receiving.
“Dats right. It ain’t. The Sixth promised us a land, if we ride the rails.” She pointed to the old man. “Now he say he see’ze the demons, den he see’ze em I say. Da shamblin been restlin all these long years. You can’t deny dat. Sumpin not right I says. May be Serub.”
“Demon,” the older man corrected her. He stood tall and took a swig of his canteen before continuing his speech.
“Da devil’s eyes, I see’ze em.” He pointed at his eyes. “Evil ems.” He pointed back down the railway toward Zenith. “They dun it. Dat tower. They brought dem back. Our people’s folly. I know.”
The crowd paused, weighing all of the exchange. A young woman kept her head low and softly muttered, making it hard for Kull to hear.
“He right. I see what they do. I run. Run for my life. De King uses them to make de shamblin out of our people. They are back.”
Kull pressed forward against the steady stream of Baggers beginning to crowd around the center of the square. Each seemed to come bearing new tales of all that had happened in Candor, especially all that happened in Zenith. Kull remained silent, slowly piecing together all that had happened since his departure.
“You say de King uses dem to do this?” a voice called out.
The girl stood up, removing her hood. She wore an intricate silver veil, and her eyes were bright with passion. “Yes. Dat’s what I said. De King of Zenith controls dem with an ancient power. Power of dem from before.”
“Desert Witches. It come from dem,” another voice muttered.
“May be,” the girl nodded. “Den Aleph need to help us all.” The mention of the Desert Witches made the crowd go silent, falling over them all like a blanket of dread and gloom.
Kull spoke, daring to get more answers. “But...Zenith has fallen. Seam’s power is over, and he may be dead. Who else leads Candor?”
The Baggers looked at Kull with a slight hesitation, but the young man spoke brashly. “Where have you been, Lotte-man? Under a rock? I make dis clear to you. Seam es gone, I’m calling dis. All dat is left is Willyn of da Grogans, Aleigha in Lotte, and Evan Darian in Elum.”
Kull’s heart slammed in his throat. “What about Wael?”
“Da monk?” The young man shook his head in disbelief. “Da monk is dead, no doubt. Seam burned Preost to the ground, including Aleph’s Sanctuary.” A low rumble began, and a mixture of fear and anger flew through the people as Kull struggled to hold back the sum of emotions running through him.
Wael. It was only moments before that the Mastermonk seemed to be right next to him, encouraging him to bury his own dead. Kull swallowed, his mind a tempest of pain. “That can’t be true.” Kull shook his head in disbelief. Wael is alive.
“You said they killed Wael in Preost? Near the Sanctuary?” Kull stared deep into the young man’s golden eyes.
“Yah, dats what I said.”
“Has there been any proof about the Mastermonk’s death? Any hard proof?”
The Bagger shook his head and clicked his tongue, “Da man want’s proof – no. I tell you only what I hear from the stories that ride the rails. I can’t give you no proof.”
Kull nodded, his mind made up. It was time to go to Preost.
CHAPTER FIVE
Seam’s eyes flew wide open in the darkness as he drew in a deep breath of frigid air. His mind throttled with new energy, like an engine started back to life. Where am I? His eyes scanned the dark chamber surrounding him as his mind worked to remember what he had last seen.
The desert. The gun. The memory slowly unwound in his consciousness. He had held the gun up and fired it into the air in the hope that the desert light would come for him. That was the last thing he could remember. The low hum of mechanics rolled around him as he tried to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. He scanned the dark chamber. Wherever he was, he knew he was no longer outside.
He tried lifting his head only to find it restrained. A cold, iron strap held his head down to some unknown surface. Seam tried to lift his functioning arm only to find that it was also shackled. He flung his body against the bonds in a panic, but he could not move. Fear, rage, and panic blossomed in his mind, and he screamed in the dark, desperate to understand what was happening.
A sudden explosion of white light flooded the room, and Seam’s vision clouded over in a blur. A dull, rattling sound echoed within the room, and Seam could feel another presence standing over him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up on end. Who is this? The rattling stopped, but Seam still could not see anything. In a hoarse whisper, Seam called out, “Who's there?”
A low voice that set Seam’s nerves on edge whispered back, “Someone who wants to restore you.”
Seam’s mind recoiled with fear as his eyes slowly adjusted to the hot, white light. There, standing before him was a tall figure shrouded in black, his image in stark contrast to the white room that enveloped them, his features not yet clear. Seconds went by as Seam blinked his eyes, desperate to catch a glance of his captor. Whoever he was, he was wearing something over his head, like a massive white crown that extended high toward the ceiling. A rattling sound filled his ears again as the figure moved, and Seam’s mouth w
ent dry with fear as a memory sparked in his mind. He had heard that sound before. Visions erupted in his mind of memories that were not his own—visions that the Keys had allowed him to see. Broken mirrors. A girl. A dagger. Bonfires in the desert night. Seam’s heart froze in his chest.
The figure stood directly over Seam, his horrible features made clear. Blood-red eyes bore down upon him beneath a skull mask of a massive stag. Seam opened his mouth to scream, but no sound would dare to leave his throat. A twisted collage of bones and death surrounded the figure as Seam remembered the gruesome scene he had witnessed of Hosp sacrificing his own daughter to the Serub shrine. “From death comes life!” the desert witch had roared into the night, before bringing the dagger down on the girl in a climax of horror.
Somehow, Seam was able to coax a question from his lips. “What do you want with me?”
A chiding click came from behind the bone mask. “Oh, now Seam. Do not be afraid. I’ve told you the truth. I am here to restore you, to bless you with power. You are...most interesting to us.”
The word us trailed off from behind the mask like the hiss of a snake, and Seam recoiled, shutting his eyes from the bright red gaze that flashed behind the mask. Dyrn. Seam suddenly remembered the creature's name. Dyrn was the leader of the elusive desert witches that he had discovered in Hosp’s memories.
His captor spoke, continuing to chide him, “Now is not the time to hide, Seam Panderean. You will find that we are very honest in this place. We will be honest with you, if you are honest with us. It’s time for us to stop turning away from one another and face the truth.”
A sudden click and whir snapped over Seam’s head, and Seam felt his eyelids wrench back in one swift, excruciating motion as small metal hooks came over the table and pried them open. Seam roared with a mixture of pain and surprise as Dyrn continued, “It is time that we face each other, Seam Panderean, so that we may both be stronger. For the good of Candor.”