Beyond Oblivion

by Daryl Banner

  0289 Forgemon

  Forge sits in a cold, strangely damp, white-walled office with a computer that holds numbers and charts and odd figures. Over the months, he’s learned how this particular bit of Lifted tech operates, thanks to Aphne who happens to be a bit of a tech expert and took the time to show him all the tricks.

  Well, most of them. “Add new sector,” he grunts at the machine, annoyed as he keeps pressing the button that ought to extend a new sector to the map they’re forming of the mines. The computer only beeps, just as annoyed with its user, apparently.

  Really, he doesn’t want to be here behind the screen of some Lifted machine. He wants to be down exploring the new mines himself. “Not wise,” Aphne had told him, shaking her head. “Without their leader among them, they will run about like children doing as they please. You’ll return to an Undercity in disarray to match the Madness upstairs. No, no. I will go. You will stay.”

  Sometimes, Forge wonders if Aphne is truly the one in charge of the Undercity. She enjoys the pleasure of calling the shots while avoiding the burden of blame and resentful eyes by hiding behind Forge and ruling in secret.

  On one hand, it bothers him greatly. If she knew the threatening looks I get from others or the confrontations I must muscle down with my intellect and intimidation tactics, she would think twice on her iron-fist means of ruling.

  On the other hand, he needs a second brain, and she is the ideal second brain to have. He trusts her implicitly. He even loves her in a way. He’s never said that about any woman other than Ellena.

  He closes his eyes, forgetting the computer for now. He closes his eyes and forgets the two teams of three they sent into the new, unexplored mine. He closes his eyes and forgets the numbers, and the resentful faces, and Ello with his stupid feet, and the miscounting in the inventories, and the noise of the Great Hall somewhere above his head. He forgets the sickeningly white light of these hallways.

  He pictures Ellena’s face, what she might look like now.

  Her hair would be longer, yes. Softer, perhaps. She might have a bit of tiredness in her eyes, having to look after the house and Lionis and Anwick all on her own. Lionis will be a great help to her, doing the laundry and the cooking. She will only have mud stains and bits of grass in her hair to fend with.

  Lionis and Anwick are getting along now. He can feel it in his bones, even if he doesn’t know it’s true at all. Even the numbers can’t help him with that. Not anymore. But they are getting along for the sake of Ellena’s sadness, because she is sad.

  She misses him. Forge knows that. Not because he thinks so highly of himself or thinks himself some glorious, defining aspect of her life. No, on the contrary, there are so many things wrong with him, so many things he could’ve done better.

  I wish I’d never laid a hand on Anwick, for all the times he threw my temper to the flames, for all the times he ignored my training, for all I sacrificed that he never appreciated.

  Perhaps Forge ought to have told Anwick the truth, long ago. Perhaps Forge was wrong to hide and bury the memory of Elle. Who was he protecting when he hired Yellow? Anwick, or the family?

  Ellena looks less happy suddenly.

  Forge’s heart sinks, but he keeps his eyes closed, and he keeps the computer and the Undercity and the worries and numbers away.

  Invading the thoughts of his wife and sons, suddenly he notices the sky opening up above them. Blood red with insanity, with chaos, with the Madness.

  He hears the maniacal laughter of Impis raining down over the heads of everyone in the ninth as they look up to the sky, wondering if this will be the last day of their lives.

  Ellena is alone. Her sons aren’t with her. No one is with her.

  No one is there.

  Ellena …

  “Problem.”

  Forge’s eyes flap open. He twists his head and meets the tensed eyes of Aphne at the door to the office. He is breathing heavily, still reeling from his panicked thoughts of his wife.

  Aphne drums her fingers on the handle of the door, which she still holds, as she speaks. “We found something.”

  Forge studies her eyes, alarmed. “Someone,” he states, pulling it from the look on her face and her posture and the way her jaw looks tightened between her words. “More than one someone.”

  Aphne lifts an eyebrow. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “Take me to them.”

  Yet again, Aphne leads Forge to the problem through halls and stairwells and more halls. The area of white-walled rooms and offices empty into a cleared section of the mines, which then lead them through the electricity and back into the mines on the other side.

  All the way, Aphne briefs him. “It’s a father and his two sons.”

  A father and two sons. Forge feels an instant connection to him. Just a father and his two sons trying to get by in this harsh, changed world. “Tell me more. What did they have on them? What were they wearing? Where did they come from? Slums or an adjacent Keep?”

  “The father had an old rusty pickaxe for a weapon, and his sons were armed with sharp stones, likely remnants they found just lying about in the mines, discarded from some past crew.”

  “Aye, remnants. The sons, how old?”

  “One looks no more than ten, a child. The other’s nearly a man grown. Seventeen, if I had to guess. The father looks your age.”

  “So he is exceptionally young?” teases Forge as they pass under bright orange lanterns in the mines, getting closer. Humor is his only relaxing agent; without it, he’s just a wad of nerves and nothing.

  “Exceptionally. There’s something becoming about the little one that touches me. Like he couldn’t hurt an ant beneath his thumb.”

  “The second you let your guard down …” Forge mumbles.

  “No, I truly don’t think we’ve anything to fear. They are just lost and in need of a home. The boys’ father is a bit guarded, of course, but wouldn’t you be?”

  When they reach the main hub from which most of the mining tunnels branch from, there is a spread of miners—along with their supervisors—who are standing around talking about the Undercity’s “all new guests” instead of getting any work done. Everyone is either suspicious or excited. Forge affords them the rest break as he passes by with Aphne at his side, heading toward the door to one of three storage rooms built into the wall, one of which the guards chose to use as a holding room for the lost father and his sons.

  At the door, Aphne puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You should be warned, they haven’t eaten in days.”

  Forge eyes her over his shoulder. “Are they planning to eat me?”

  “No. I just meant—”

  “Send someone to fetch three trays of food,” he tells her, “as well as white-berry wine for the father, juice for the children. Then—”

  “The older son is seventeen or so, lest I remind you.”

  He furrows his brow at her. “You drank wine at seventeen?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Forge throws her a tired shrug. “Three beverages of whatever you feel befits a proper welcome. Just treat to them somehow.”

  “I’m coming in there, too,” she asserts.

  There’s no sense in arguing with Aphne. Forge eyes the guard by the door, Wyass, the short but stout man who had procured the two mine-exploring teams their arms. “Wyass …” he begins.

  “I’ll get the food,” he says, having heard the exchange, and is off.

  Forge watches Wyass go as he gathers his thoughts, considering how he may best approach these three newcomers. Should he carry a certain intimidation and authority over them, or should he be the warm, welcoming leader they can relate to? A healthy mix of both …?

  “I can speak first, if you wish it,” offers Aphne.

  For a flash, Forge pictures Ellena’s sad face once again. He sees her standing alone in their dim little house in the ninth. There is no Anwick. There is no Lionis, nor Link. A father and his sons …

  Forge shakes his head. �
��No, that is alright. We will manage. I. I will manage.” Before he can procrastinate further, he makes himself push open the door.

  Inside, the room is a modest size with giant crates of stone and mineral lining its perimeter. At either wall is an armed guard, posted in place as silent and unmoving as statues. In the center of the room squats a short square wooden table at which the father and two sons are seated and silent. The youngest of the two has messy brown hair and a small mouth, reminding Forge too much of what both Anwick and Halvesand looked like as young boys, the pair of them seeming more like twins than even Aleks and Halves did. The older son is a bulkier fellow with big arms, a blocky head, short hair on top and buzzed along the sides, a scowl on his face, and two small eyes.

  The father is the one who looks up first. He wears a beard much like Forge’s, though it’s far less kempt about the ears and neck, and is messy around the mouth, too, almost hiding his thin lips. Though his dark brown eyebrows are thick and pulled together with focus, there is something inviting about his eyes. They express that he is a gentle, well-meaning man. He boasts of a full head of hair, though it’s cropped short and the bangs go halfway down his forehead. His high cheekbones and chiseled nose give him an unexpectedly handsome, strong appearance, and his big arms are evidence that he very well could be a blacksmith himself, if not a knight or a carpenter.

  This man, were Forge more comfortable in admitting it, looks so much like his long-lost brother Redge, to whom he has not spoken in years. I hope he is still alive and well. What an awful thought to have of one’s own brother.

  Of course this isn’t him. Forge knows that. This gentleman is a stranger, but he is also a person who may have valuable skills and something quite useful to contribute to the Undercity.

  Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Forge enters the room fully and plants himself a healthy two paces from the table, not too far to seem weak, not too close to be overbearing. Aphne follows him and shuts the door at her back, then stands at his side, arms folded.

  “I am Forgemon,” he announces, breaking the ice. “I’m the one people answer to here in the Undercity.”

  “Undercity?” questions the father with a tilt of his head.

  He has a smooth, easygoing cadence that is of a higher register than Forge was expecting. Just in those four tiny syllables, he sounds charismatic, kind, and personable, like some friend Forge might have known in the metalshop. In an instant, Forge can picture inviting the man and his wife over to have dinner with his family, their two sons meeting all of Forge’s. In this brief moment, it’s a lovely image.

  Then Forge swallows away the fantasy. “Undercity,” he repeats, a touch firmer. “That is the name we dignify ourselves with. We’ve not been a Keep for quite a long time now. We hold no prisoners.”

  “Except me,” murmurs the man lightly, somehow still managing to put Forge at ease with every single word he utters. His words are so unusually soft and seemly, they’re nearly squeaky.

  Forge gives him a tight, rueful smile. “I am a cautious man.”

  “As you ought to be. Yes, I can trust your caution. It’s human to watch our backs and protect our own. Just as I’ve protected mine.”

  Forge turns his eyes on the two sons, both of whom stare down at the table, not making eye contact at all. They’re scared, he decides. He brings his focus back to the father. “What’s your name?”

  The man leans forward and places his elbows on the table. “My name is Geoff. These are my sons, Kason and Aceyn.”

  “Ace,” mumbles the youngest, annoyed.

  Geoff turns and considers him. “He is getting older by the day. Seems my youngest prefers Ace now. Hey.” He gives his older son a nudge of his elbow. “Are you fine with Kason these days, buddy? Or are you going by Kase suddenly and haven’t told me?”

  Kason folds his arms and looks up at Forge, his eyes heavy. “Are we your prisoners now?”

  “Kason, come now,” the father chides him.

  After a moment of them staring each other down, Kason finally sinks into his seat and says nothing further, folding his muscular arms, his eyes drifting back to the tabletop in defeat.

  Aphne takes a step forward and makes an unexpected effort to diffuse and soften the sons. “We’re bringing the three of you trays of food with some … lovely drinks to refresh you.” She eyes Forge, who gives her a subtle look. She quickly adds, “We know you’re likely … hungry and weary. That’s …” She clears her throat. Being sweet and hospitable isn’t exactly what she’s used to. “That’s all I … wanted to add. Carry on.” She gives them a tight, plastic smile, then steps back.

  Forge maintains his firm demeanor. If she acts upon the sweet of compassion, I’ll act upon the salt of reality. He faces them again. “This is Aphne. She is the one all of the supervisors of our six agencies report to. We are equals in our operations of the Undercity.”

  “He flatters me,” murmurs Aphne with an uncharacteristically soft and totally-put-on chuckle. “Really, I’m his second in command.”

  Forge eyes her. “You’re my equal and have always been.”

  “Aye.” Geoff shifts in his chair, tilting his head as he observes the two of them with a sparkle of curiosity in his eyes. “I like this bit between you two. It warms my heart.”

  Both Aphne and Forge look at the man. Neither seem to be able to tell whether they are being admired or mocked.

  Forge turns the interrogation back onto the father and his sons. “Tell us how you came to be stranded in the mines.”

  “I explained it to your miners who found us.”

  “Yes, you did,” agrees Forge, “but I’d like to hear it directly from you. I get a lot of my information secondhand, turns out. I’d like to get this particular bit of information firsthand. Please, share.”

  Geoff observes the pair of them for a moment, then gives a short nod. “It’s simple. We were prisoners of the Keep, just as you, but I suspect it was another sector of it we were in. Sanctum control of our Keep was lost when the Madness struck, and it came down to us to watch over and protect ourselves. Circumstances caused my sons and I to part ways with them, and we’ve been journeying the mines ever since. We …” Geoff swallows, his eyes sinking to the table. “We ran out of food two days ago.”

  “Two and a half,” mumbles the younger son, Ace, still scowling.

  Geoff reaches over to him and gives his hair a tossing. Ace flinches away. “Don’t worry on him,” Geoff tells Forge and Aphne. “He’s a right to be mistrusting and awfully mannered. My poor sons have …” He sighs. “They’ve been through a lot.”

  “Refreshments will be here shortly,” Aphne assures them from Forge’s side. “They were summoned for just before we came in.”

  Geoff smiles at them. “You are too kind to us.”

  Again, Forge feels an uncanny connection with the man, as if he has known him his whole life. What a pleasant, agreeable man, he thinks suddenly, calmed by his words and his smooth, comely voice. He can’t even fathom turning these three away. And besides, where would they go?

  Forge goes for a chair by the wall and drags it to the table. Geoff and his sons watch as Forge seats himself across from them. “You’ve two strong and loyal boys, from what I see. I have five of my own.”

  Geoff nods appreciatively at that. “Big family is a happy family.”

  “Aye. And now this is my big family.”

  The father gives a glance at either guard in the room, then over at Aphne, where his gaze lingers with curiosity. “Yes … I do believe I catch the meaning in your words, Forgemon.”

  Forge keeps a straight face. He isn’t sure he meant anything beyond what he just said, but he lets Geoff have his moment. “Yes,” he agrees emptily, studying the father.

  “There is nothing beyond the mines but darkness and darkness,” murmurs Geoff. “We happened on no water. We happened on no neighbors, no other folk in the caves, no whispers of anything. Not even cave plants to chew upon and worry if it’ll make our bowels erupt. Ju
st the Keep at our backs and the tunnels at our feet.”

  “You were fortunate to happen on my crew,” notes Forge.

  “We were.”

  The next question comes from Aphne, who approaches the side of the table slowly. “How came you to be in the Keep?”

  Something between a tenseness and an awkwardness sets upon the room like a heavy bed sheet, pulling on the shoulders.

  Aphne seems to feel it, for she sputters an explanation. “We all have our … our interesting stories. Some sad. Some unfair. But they all end with our like being sent here for some reason or another. I am only curious, as I …” She swallows, then gestures toward his sons. “I have never seen a whole family in the Keep. Together.”

  Forge finds she has a good point. Of course she does. She so often sees what you refuse to keep an open eye for. He lifts his chin to Geoff, awaiting his response.

  Geoff leans back and folds his hands on his lap. “I … cannot sit here in your kind, honest presence and claim perfection. I am not a perfect father and have not set a perfect example for my sons, I am quite ashamed to say.”

  “Dad,” grunts Kason.

  “No, no. They will hear it.” Geoff straightens his posture. “After my wife fell ill, I was unable to pull slack for her missing income and tending with our kid’s needs. She was also pregnant with our third child, a beautiful baby girl. Neither my wife nor the child survived her fatal fever. It was the Winter’s Blush, if you’ve ever heard it. The worst of illnesses a pregnant woman could be afflicted with.”

  “Oh, no,” murmurs Aphne, a hand going to her mouth.

  Forge might eye her and ask where the hell the real Aphne is who would have made some insensitive, caustic jape about an illness being called the “Winter’s Blush”. Instead, he appreciates the show she’s putting on and, in his own stoic way, lets his face sink with due sympathy for the man’s plight. Besides, he really does feel for him, and cannot—no, will not—imagine such a fate for Ellena.