by Casey Eanes
When she arrived, she was greeted with a chorus of praise from the throngs of soldiers. Her eyes welled with tears as she stepped out of the battered service car that had barely gotten her to Damrall from Legion’s Teeth. Rander approached her, smiling broadly and falling to one knee.
“We are with you, Willyn. All of us.” The people, in turn, fell to their knees.
Willyn stood like a statue, overcome with the sight of her people. Her words barely escaped her lips above a whisper. “Well done, Rander.” It was all she could say. Rander’s speed and efficiency accompanied by his strategic foresight had silently awed her. It overwhelmed her that one of her greatest enemies had transformed into her greatest ally.
The fleet of Grogan rooks and titans soon began their descent out of the mountainous regions of the Realm, until the Grogans were back to the flat desert plains that bordered Riht. By night they marched, passing the ruins of Rhuddenhall, and Willyn silently mourned its loss, wondering if it ever would be rebuilt.
Not now. Rhuddenhall is nothing without its people. You saved them, and that’s all that matters. A city can be rebuilt. You will see it done. She promised herself this as her army quietly marched past the smoking ruins, giving a wide berth to what was left of the Red City. She did not dare get closer for fear of triggering the morel hive she knew may still be lurking within. She spoke over the coms, whispering into the microphone as her soldiers kept moving, a long black stream of rooks and titans. From a distance it may have looked like a massive funeral procession.
“We will be crossing under the Hangman’s Pass soon, soldiers. Once we clear it, we will make for Cotswold with double speed. When we cross into Lotte, I want every soldier at the ready. We do not mean the Lottians harm, but be ready for anything. There are enemies all around us.”
She adjusted her coms to Rander’s call sign. “Rander?”
“Yes, my Sar?”
“Put an official wire out to Vale. Tell them we are coming and to send whatever representation they have out to Cotswold as a neutral zone. Instruct the men that we are not to show any aggression unless I command it. That is an order.”
“Aye, my liege.”
She glanced up through the dark glass of her rook’s cockpit. Above her was the giant arch of the Hangman’s Pass. She could see the gleaming chains hung high above her, blowing in the wind under the pale moonlight. She smiled and threw down the accelerator. Thousands more behind her followed suit, their mighty war machines echoing through the night like a triumphant war cry.
Ewing took a long, solemn draw from his pipe. The cool night hung crisp in the air, but Ewing’s favorite vice kept him warm, though he barely noticed it. The news of Aleigha’s murder had only been the day prior, but to Ewing it felt as if a decade had gone by. He had listened over his datalink deep into the night for chatter and strategy of the remaining Guardsmen out in the field and within Vale’s fortressed exterior. Ewing knew the hard truth, despite the Guardsmen’s best efforts.
“It’s all in vain, boys,” he whispered, slowly blowing out his pipe smoke into the chilled night air. “All in vain.” Seam was gone, vanishing like a nightmarish phantom. Ewing silently wondered what had happened in the fallen king’s mind that had caused him to do such a horrible thing. The crackle of radio chatter filled in the spaces of Ewing’s thoughts, when he heard someone behind him.
“Wael, my friend.” Ewing flashed a small smile behind his mournful eyes. “Coming out to get some fresh air. Where is Kull?”
Wael nodded, his face looking worn and more tired than Ewing had ever seen. Wael spoke, his voice rolling like a river, “He is asleep, Ewing, as soon we must all be. It is not wise to stay up all night, my friend. You must conserve your strength.”
Ewing bristled, if only slightly. “Ha. How can anyone sleep when they know they’re about to witness the end of the world? You saw the feeds. Isphet is marching toward the east. Toward us. We do not have the forces to keep him at bay. Impossible.”
Wael took in a slow breath and stepped beside Ewing, silent. Ewing took another draw from his pipe and held in the smoke, clenching his eyes shut, before letting the smoke roll from his nostrils. “Wael, we’ve both seen a lot. I can see it in your eyes too, friend.”
Ewing turned and met Wael’s gaze. His eyes watered as he searched for answers in the monk’s stare. Ewing continued, “This world is falling apart. Our nobles can’t agree to do anything except hide and wait. Elum and Preost are both burning as we speak, and for all we know the Groganlands are still in a state of civil war. What are two old men like us going to do to stop a demon and a devil king?”
The two stood in silence as Ewing waited, hoping for some ray of hope, but Wael’s eyes were cold, if not distant. Wael straightened his back and looked down into Arthur’s eyes again as a small smile crept over his lips. “Arthur, we have seen a lot, yes. And I admit I have never witnessed anything like this, nor did I expect to...” Wael’s gaze fell away and his thoughts seemed to pull him back inside but he continued. “Nor did I expect to lose so much. My daughter, my fellow monks of the order, my home. But there is one thing I have not yet lost.”
“That cursed dog of yours?” Ewing chuckled as he puffed at his pipe and scanned the doorway, half expecting Rot to be there growling at him for the joke.
Wael chuckled and shook his head. “No, Arthur. My faith. My hope.”
“Not too much to inspire hope these days, Wael,” Ewing huffed. He let out a sigh and shook his head as his thoughts returned to his fallen king and queen.
“How quickly you forget the young man Aleph just brought back to us. Our hope, Ewing, is with Kull and the gift Aleph has given him.”
“Lotte control...come in.”
“Lotte command, this is the Groganlands...”
“Lotte. Do you copy? Come through.”
Adley’s eyes flashed open as her datalink crackled with the broken sound of a female voice rolling through the various datalink lines normally dedicated to Lottian military.
She pulled the device to her lips. “Groganlands, this is Lotte. We copy. Please verify.”
“Lotte, this is Willyn, Sar of the Groganlands—”
The feed cut and the signal ended, dropping Willyn mid-sentence. Adley shouted and shook the datalink before jumping to her feet and running out her door and down the hallway, searching for a stronger signal.
“Arriving in fourteen hours.” Willyn’s voice skipped back onto the line.
“Please repeat,” Adley stammered. “Signal failed on you.”
“This is Willyn Kara, Sar of the Groganlands. Prepare Lotte for our arrival in the fields of Cotswold. I am accompanied by six thousand men and women and we are fully armed. We will be arriving in fourteen hours.”
Adley’s mind sputtered and skipped as she tried to piece together the words that just came over the datalink coms. Willyn’s voice crackled back over the line. “Lotte, do you copy?”
“Willyn, yes! This is Adley, I confirm.”
“Good. Have your men ready. We need to ready ourselves for battle as soon as we arrive.”
Adley cleared her throat before answering. “We will do our best. But the queen. Aleigha. She is dead. Killed by her son, and Lotte is in chaos. We are trying to pull the Resistance back together.”
The line was silent with a pregnant pause before Willyn’s voice returned.
“We have two devils to kill now. Get every hand on deck. This will be our last stand. Fourteen hours.”
Tendrils of smoke curled from under the rubble of Elu’Qua and hung like a thick, suffocating fog. Mortar, brick, and glass were strewn about, cluttering the once pristine cobblestone streets. Cyric stood like a mannequin, silent and unwavering as he absorbed the silence. Even the nearby ocean seemed to be silent, hushed by the horror that had violated its beautiful coast. The hair on Cyric’s neck raised on end as a cold breeze pushed over the rubble. His thoughts were grave; everything was dead.
Even the gulls do not call, he marveled. The once
proud metropolis was an utter void, a hollowed-out vacuum of destruction. A snarled road sign and the half-remains of a favorite pub sign, The Bagger’s Friend, let Cyric know he was standing over what used to be his home, if anywhere could really be called his home. He stepped over the crumbled brick and stone and flipped over a few pieces of crushed roofing.
“Come on. Please,” Cyric muttered under his breath as he stooped and ripped back a large panel of collapsed wall. Sweat poured from his brow as the rising smoke coming up from the debris stung at his eyes. Cyric leaned back and drew in a deep breath before hunching back down and continuing to dig.
“No.” Cyric’s heart stopped and his throat clapped shut, refusing him breath. He grasped at his chest as he fell to one knee. He pulled a small, blonde doll from the rubble. The porcelain doll’s head was cracked and smeared with soot, her purple dress singed and stained. “Livvy. No...no...no...no!”
Cyric let out a scream that felt like it was ripping his throat in two. He tried to empty his chest of its endless pain, but no scream could expel the anger and pain exploding within him. Tears refused to free themselves as his breathing became impossible. He fought to stand, choking on the smoke rising from the ground. He jumped to his feet and ran from his wrecked home, trying to just get away from it, to get anywhere else.
As Cyric neared his battered jeep he stopped and turned back to the fallen city’s ruins. He glanced down at the small doll he still held. He scanned the city again and finally felt his chest loosen as he forced himself to take a step back toward the smoldering remains. He began to sprint from one pile of rubble to another.
His hunt was manic as he ripped and tossed the piles of debris before rushing to search a new collapsed home. “Where are they?”
The datalink on Cyric’s wrist let out a low blip, which he missed at first as he continued to dig, searching for survivors or clues to their whereabouts. The datalink’s tone continued with increased volume until it finally caught Cyric’s attention.
“Parker!” Cyric looked down at his wrist. “You made it!?”
“Barely. Never seen a thing like it.” The older man’s face was caked in dried blood and smeared with soot. His gray hair was tousled and his clothes were ragged. Cyric could hardly believe that his old friend was alive on the other side of the datalink screen. “Them things came outta nowhere and pulled people out left and right.”
“Livvy! Where is she, Parker?”
The old man’s countenance fell and he lowered his gaze, shaking his head slowly. “I...I dunno. She was out visiting. Once everything happened, I had to run…I came back to look, but—”
“Nothing.” Cyric finished his sentence. Cyric glanced down at the small doll in his hand and tucked it into a satchel as he tried to shake the nightmarish scenarios from his skull.
“I’m so sorry, Cy. I never had any idea. I mean, she was just down the road—”
“I’ll find her, Parker. I have to, but for now I need to know—” Cyric’s voice caught as he gathered himself, clearing his throat. “I need to know if we have any pred tech available?”
“Ha, gonna make ‘em pay, huh?” Parker chuckled.
Willyn crested her rook around the familiar bend that marked the outer border of Cotswold. Willyn had taken her six thousand Grogan warriors past Faylon, following the path that mirrored the rail car road. Soon they would enter the small logging village nestled by the Asban River.
Or what’s left of it, she thought.
A cold chill went down her spine as she thought about the damage she had done to the home of Grift and Kull Shepherd. Hosp had been meticulous, orchestrating that musical number, note by note, and Willyn…she had played her part. She had reacted exactly as he had planned, rushing into Lotte after Grift Shepherd without questioning the intel that had been given to her. Without considering an alternative. She had taken a sledgehammer to the job of a scalpel, and it had nearly cost her everything. Hagan taught you better.
The cold pang of grief slammed through her, and she winced at the thought of her brother. Her mind swirled in the roar of her rook’s cockpit as she saw the outline of Cotswold grow with each passing second. Her memories of fire, smoke, and the thumping engines had caused the destruction she now witnessed. Her eyes welled with tears, as she fought to hold back the explosion of emotions within her. She had taken many lives in Cotswold, many innocent lives all because of Hosp’s deception. The guilt and the burden of her actions fell over her like a lead blanket, and she lowered the throttle down to a crawl. Her hands flew and engaged the coms, her voice breaking over the thousands who followed her lead behind.
“Grogans, halt. Rander and I will approach the city. All squadrons pull back and hold at the ready. We will wait for the Lottian guards personally. If we need you, we will call.”
Rander protested over the line, “My Sar, I don’t think…”
“That is an order, Rander. Pull your rook toward mine, and ensure your generals obey.”
“Aye, sir.”
The other Grogan pilots pulled back as the two lone rooks drove into the ruins. Half of the city was gone, a crumbled shell of darkness marked by the tell-tale signs of Grogan artillery and firebombs. The half that was still intact was unkempt, showing the beginning signs of abandonment. How much time had transpired since she had first captured Grift Shepherd? The question plagued her as she slowly worked her way back to the past.
She stepped out of her rook as the cool mountain air of Lotte blew around her fiery red hair. Rander trailed her as she walked toward the ruins, her eyes scanning the horizon.
“Two years…” she whispered. “It’s been nearly two years since I’ve been here, Rander. Since I did this.” She held up her black gloves. “These hands have taken the blood of innocents.”
Rander’s breath clouded in the cool air, his face as still as stone. “Your intentions were loyal to your people, Willyn. You sought out justice for your brother, for your Sar. No Grogan can question your loyalty.”
Willyn shook her head as a wave of nausea threatened to overtake her. “No, Rander. This is bigger than the Groganlands. There must be justice for my deeds against these people. There must be some way I can make amends for this.” She held out her hand on the lower portion of the city, filled with rubble and ruined beyond recognition.
Rander stood at attention, but said nothing. Willyn ran her hand through her hair and shuddered in the cool air.
“How many more hours before the Lottian envoy comes, Rander?”
Rander tapped his datalink, and his screen made his face glow briefly.
“We have eight hours, sir.”
“Good.”
“Shall we call the others in now, sir?”
Willyn stood like a pillar, her face distant as she tried to tamp down the hurricane of feelings that roared through her.
“Call them all in. We will set up camp and wait on our guests. Instruct the soldiers to begin clearing the ruins.”
“Clearing the ruins, sir?”
“Yes, Rander. I will do what I can to right this wrong, even if my actions are small. We will begin by clearing the ruins. Once this conflict is over, if we survive, then I will have both Cotswold and Faylon rebuilt...restored.”
“Sir?”
Willyn ignored the question but continued, “If I do not survive the storm that is coming, then I order you, Rander, as the next Sar, to commit our Realm to this action. Do you understand?”
Rander stood, his eyes wide and his face awestruck. “It will be as you say, my liege. I swear on the name of Aleph, it will be done as you say.”
Willyn nodded, a faint smile growing over face. “Good, let’s call them in.”
The roar of the ocean thundered in the hollow sea cave. The smell of salt rolled in with the hammering of each wave. In the darkness, his legs crossed, Luken sat, his eyes shut tight. The sound of the sea was the perfect cover for the work that had to be done now, and Luken knew he did not have much time left. The final game was being staged, and s
oon all the pieces would be on the board. It was a game that could not be won, not unless he did his work carefully, and in secret.
Behind his eyelids, Luken could project his mind out onto the other side, what the Alephian monks called stretching. Here, another ocean roared, its waters much deeper and darker than the one he sat by now. Luken carefully focused his mind as the darkened Sea came into focus. His perspective shifted again as he plunged his mind deep into the dark water. He could feel them...their weight and their power.
Deeper he went, where the water swallowed whatever gray light that horrible place afforded. Even in his limited and clandestine mode, Luken could feel his body flush with gooseflesh as the water went from cold to glacial. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, threatening to force him out of his trance.
Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, he found them. Hanging in the deepest darkness, he counted their bodies that hung in the deep prison. The familiar faces of his enemies floated past him. Their true essences had long hung here in the darkness, forgotten but preserved. He took account of each of them, but there was one missing. There are only four here. Not five.
He counted again, brushing his mind’s eye past the two women and two men whose essences stayed hanging in the eternal darkness. Where is the other? Where is he?
Luken felt something shift in the darkness. A dreadful fear ricocheted through his mind as his questions were dreadfully answered. This was a stupid risk. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have put myself…
His thoughts ceased when he realized that the eyes of the people trapped before him in the Seas were now staring at him, aware. Unthinking and yet all-seeing, theirs were like the eyes of corpses who would not perform their undertaker’s bidding.
Aleph above. Luken recoiled as their pupils became darker than the darkness of the Sea that surrounded them, and he felt his skin crawl as the faces of Arakiel and Bastion vibrated with unholy energy.
They spoke to him, the single voice speaking through the essence of both hellish puppets. It boomed in his mind like a thunderclap, roaring with a power that was both horrible and beautiful, a voice that could somehow soothe children into jumping off cliffs and cause mothers to eat their own young.