by R. M Garino
She sought her own death.
Logan looked at his hands.
Just like him.
The others were wrapped in the fear of their own demise, and that fear clouded their vision.
He observed his surroundings while he contemplated his epiphany. The sward undulated against the wind to his right, and a great hump followed moments later.
The creatures still hunted him.
He called them skretch, for the sounds they made. He lost count of the numbers he dispatched. The tally did not matter. He was not collecting trophies.
He had a mission to complete.
There was no sign of the Bore. Dugal told him to look for the light of creation and the congregation of beasts. But the light was all around him, and he had experienced no darkness to distinguish the light.
The hunters gathered in their packs to prowl the grasses.
The display showed him no hint as to which way to travel.
Logan ran his hand across his mouth. His fingers were filthy, covered in blood and grime, but he no longer noticed. According to the display, he was less than a quarter of the way to the gate that would take him home. He needed to make a decision soon; abandon the quest for the Bore, or press on to the gate. If he was not present when it opened, he would be trapped here forever.
He watched the grass sway in the breeze.
“Failure is no stranger to me,” he said to himself. His words were stolen by the wind. “But now I am as directionless as I was at home.”
He glanced at the unmoving sun. It gave light, but no heat. The air was frigid, and his breath bloomed with each exhalation.
There was another outcropping of stone about a mile to the northwest, and from what he saw, it was expansive. At top speed, he'd traverse the distance in three, maybe four minutes.
But it was the opposite direction from the gate. He lost that option long ago, hadn't he? Seeking the sanctuary of the rock, his course drove him further away from safety with each step. The distance was too great to go backward.
He laughed aloud at the word.
"Distance," he said. "It is an illusion, you fool. There is no distance. Look how far you've run, and you are still lost."
He examined the far off outcropping. Perspective did not always play by the same rules he was accustomed to. The skretch, however, were the real problem. They were attracted by movement, and the faster he ran, the more he brought out. A slow, stalking gait seemed to confuse them. He made his last three transitions in such a fashion, but the time it took was excruciating.
"The choice is mine," he said. "No one else's."
Logan loosened his sword in his scabbard, made sure it was free of any obstructions, and let it fall back. The action reminded him of the buckle he wore and he pushed away the irritation that flared at the memory associated with it.
This was not the time to dwell on Angus Kal’Parev and his manipulations. He reminded himself of how he appeared to Gwen and Arielle. A part of him still wanted to return home to them, if for nothing else than to mitigate Kal’Parev’s insult. For that, he must focus. Once again, Angus’ smug visage flashed across his mind. The bastard taunted Logan with those same words only two days ago in the communal mess.
"You must focus," Angus said.
Logan's hand tightened on the hilt. Oh, how he longed to smash that self-righteous smirk from Kal’Parev’s face.
The breeze increased in volume and the wind roared across the plain. Logan’s upper lip quivered in a silent snarl. He felt the rage roiling within him, begging for a release. His long black hair streamed across his sharp features. Raising his forearm, he shielded his eyes from the airborne debris.
The world darkened.
The grasses bowed against the fury of the wind, which was now a steady gale. He was weary of waiting. His blood screamed for action, for release.
"Death will forbid my vengeance," he said. "I will cast Kal'Parev down into the bowels of all seven hells first."
He drew his sword and rolled his shoulders.
Let the skretch come for him.
His blade needed to bathe.
In three loping steps he descended into the grasslands and tore through the leaning stalks.
"I am leaving this place," he screamed into the wind, "and to the Apostate with any who chose to stand in my way. I will cut them down, one and all!"
He did not have long to wait.
The first skretch raced on a parallel track to his own and made its way closer. He saw the spiked top of its hideous form, a murderous centipede dipping in and out of the grass, racing to catch him. A quick glance showed him at least five more behind it. Logan held the lead. He tucked his chin into his chest and pushed himself to move faster. He had to reach the outcropping. He would engage with them there.
The skretch separated.
He pulled further ahead.
Logan vaulted onto the granite protrusion, dropped low, and swung his blade behind him. The sharpened edge smashed through the skretch's arms, and the beast howled. Using the momentum, he looped the sword up, and brought it crashing down on the center of its pincer covered head. He felt the initial resistance, but the weapon’s inertia, combined with the construction of the obdurate steel overcame it.
Logan flowed into the next attack, which launched from the grass to the right. He stepped to the side, and a backhanded swing severed its head. A lunge dispatched the next, catching the creature at the apex of its neck. The tip of the sword punctured the top of its skull. He pivoted, letting the dead weight slide off the blade. He completed his turn and slashed open the belly of the next, ripping it from the groin to the throat.
The last one hesitated at the base of the island. It watched him, studied his movements and bided its time. It rose on its hind legs, reared much taller than he. Its long lower section helped it keep its balance.
He fought back a surge of disgust.
Logan dropped into the waiting stance, his arms hung loose and bent at the elbow, his knees bowed at a slight angle, and his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. The tip of his sword pointed upward, running against his arm. He chose not to be lost here. His name was not destined to be counted among the casualties of the Sur.
He kept his focus fixed to the skretch, but remained aware of his surroundings. Another might creep around to his flank while this one held his attention.
It was not distracting him, he realized.
The grasses trembled on either side of the hunter.
It was stalling, waiting for more of its kind to arrive.
He counted five more beasts in the distance.
"So be it," Logan said.
His right foot slid across the stone, and his sword leveled with a flick of his wrist.
An arrow sailed past him from behind and struck the first beast in the throat. It convulsed, and flopped down on its back, dead. A volley followed, and arrows sprouted from the soft underbellies of each skretch.
Logan spun to face the new threat, but dropped his aggressive stance.
A half dozen Lethen’al stood upon the slope. Their obdurate weapons shone in the darkening world.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Lifeless
Some of the faces were familiar, though it was years since Logan last saw them. Some reached back decades in his memory, calling up times when he was a fresh cadet at the Areth’kon. They were Yearlings who never returned from the Sur. Others were new to him. Either way, it was impossible for any of them to be here.
But they were, and they just saved him.
That they survived so long in such a hostile place spoke well of them and the training they received.
Logan was impressed.
They watched him with faces devoid of all emotion, and his expression was a mirror of theirs while he evaluated the threat they posed. Thankfully, none of them attempted to communicate with him by telepathic means. He was handicapped in that ability, and all such attempts were painful.
Giving his attention to one he knew wel
l enough to place a name to, Logan tapped his fist over his heart and inclined his head in greeting.
“Well met, Reid,” he said, though the screaming wind threatened to tear his words away. “Your family will rejoice at the news. We thought you were lost to us two years ago. I am Logan, Heir to House Fel’Mekrin, if you do not remember me.”
His overture was met with silence. Reid blinked, the movement slow, and he tilted his head to the side as if in an attempt to understand. His dark hair flailed in the wind, covering his face with long, greasy tendrils. His eyes held a vacant, lusterless cast to them.
I am glad I did not sheath my sword, Logan thought, waiting for a response. Their silence, and to a larger degree, their presence, was disturbing.
One of the Yearlings departed, stepping away as if Logan no longer held his interest. Reid placed his fist over his heart and returned the salute. There was something off about him, about all of them, Logan realized, and it set him on edge. Maybe it was the effects of this place, he told himself. He was here for just over a day, and he was already feeling the strain of exposure. What would this place do to him after two years? Ignoring their odd behavior, Logan stepped closer. Perhaps he was too abrupt in turning from his mission.
“Thank you for your assistance,” he said. “I have been tasked by the San Hedram to locate the Bore, through which the servants of the Apostate enter the Patresilen. But I have precious little to guide me, and I am running out of time. Do you know where it is?”
Reid and the others regarded him with a silent scrutiny, as if deciding what to make of him. They bent their heads toward one another, but he did not see the telltale signs of telepathic communication. Come to think of it, he did not see their sin’dels at all.
Logan’s apprehension mounted.
Reid stepped away from the others and gestured behind him. Logan nodded his thanks and trotted up the path worn into the stone. One by one, the Yearlings trailed after him. The wind increased when he crested the summit of the small island, and fell away when he stepped behind its protective shelter of its leeward side.
A quick glance at the sky showed him the deep purples of late sunset. How odd, he thought. I never noticed the sun move.
Thankfully, there was still enough light to see. Ahead of him, further down the slope, a very faint illumination revealed an area between several boulders.
The path continued down, and Logan marched along, questioning every step. Something did not sit well with him, though he was unable to place what it was. The grasses did not change position with relation to the island, and yet the track he walked stretched on and on before him while he descended the steep slope.
“How far is the Bore?” Logan said, trying to make conversation more than anything else. The lack of a response warranted a peek over his shoulder.
He had just enough time to duck beneath the sweep of a blade aimed for his head. Swinging his own sword, he ripped the tip up along Reid’s torso, splitting him open and spilling his innards. The rest of the Yearlings charged from the upslope even while Reid fell. Raising his sword, Logan whipped it around and brought it to bear against the next opponent. The Yearling met his attack with her own blade, but her transition was slow and sloppy. Logan pushed her weapon aside and opened her neck, almost severing her head from her shoulders.
Flowing past her he engaged the next opponent. Bending at the waist, he struck low and delivered a deep slash across his new adversary’s abdomen. With a flick of his wrist he repositioned the edge and took off the top of his head.
The next one rushed Logan's flank, and he did not have time to set up the strike. He stepped into the swing, punched him in the side of the jaw, and then slammed his sword into his middle. An arrow skidded across the side of Logan’s face and cut along his check. Shoving the eviscerated Yearling in front of him, he withdrew his blade as a trio of arrows slammed into the body.
Pushing the corpse into the next Yearling, Logan slid to the left, and engaged the enemy approaching his other flank. This one had more power behind his swings, and Logan had to work to turn them aside. The ring of steel on steel bespoke the memory of hammer on metal and echoed through the darkened cliffs. The opponent’s blade nipped his shoulder, while his own bit into the flesh of the other’s chin.
While they danced around the other, Logan took note of the final Yearling moving into position. He put more pressure into his swing than the precise application of the form required and pushed his assailant away. He changed direction with the recovery and attacked the newcomer. He landed a pair of strikes along either side of his ribs. Pivoting back to the first opponent, he parried an upward assault and struck out with his elbow, breaking his enemy’s nose with a solid sideways blow.
The second Yearling’s blade nicked along the side of his waist when he turned, but Logan ignored the pain and propelled his way within his foe’s guard. He smashed the pommel into the edge of an eye socket. He pinned the Yearling’s sword arm and slammed his blade into his middle, twisting it once it stopped. He ripped the weapon out the side, and spun toward the final Yearling.
The nameless enemy lunged, his entire weight behind his weapon. Logan batted the thrust aside, and with a flip of his wrist, repositioned and severed his head when he passed.
He flicked the blood from his blade and watched the Yearling fall to the ground.
Within the space of several heartbeats, the flesh of the body sloughed away. The weapons and clothing remained, but the body melted into the tainted soil.
A single si'ru burst forth from the evacuated uniform. It fluttered in place for a moment, and Logan felt as if it were communicating with him on some level. The light it produced flickered through a broad spectrum of colors, but he was unable to understand it.
An errant gust of wind caught it, and it was whisked away to join the others he liberated.
None of the bodies remained, yet he knew where each enemy fell. His guard was up, and he swept his gaze across the barren slope, searching for any sign of additional complications. He was alone again. He saw the tracks of his own steps, but none others. The summit was an impossible distance away, far in excess of what he walked.
The Sur was toying with him.
Arielle’s final benediction passed through his thoughts; Charge against your enemies, Logan. Make them remember your name, and come back to us.
Her image danced across his mind, and he felt his resolve firm. Thus far in his life, he did little to live up to her expectations of him. He intended to change that. This land misled him, distracted him, and sent him wandering in circles. If he were remembered here, it would be for the ease with which he was manipulated.
No more.
"I am Logan Fel'Mekrin," he called out to the departing si'ru. "I am leaving this place."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Lost Guard
Logan approached the lighted cave quicker than expected. The terrain rose, and now he moved uphill. There were no illusions, no overgrown insects, and no reanimated corpses. But still he set a fast pace, chased by his flayed emotions. Sounds of beasts echoed from the cave's opening. The ground grew rocky and cluttered.
Shrulks hunted his people by the scent of their sin'dels, he reminded himself. He concentrated on his breathing, and drew his sin'del tight against himself. He was not yet able to perform the satyagraha, where his life force became an impenetrable armor, but he did his best approximation.
He left the path and crept to the nearest boulder. By painful, silent increments he made his way closer to the ledge. With a careful, slow progression he raised his head to ascertain his current situation.
The light of creation showed the way. Just as Dugal predicted.
What appeared to be sunlight shone from the interior, shadows filtered and shifted with the movement of bodies. Numerous other caverns dotted the cliff face, each aglow with their own radiance. At the entrances shrulks and skretch cavorted. They nipped and slashed at one another in their quest to gain admittance. It reminded him of a bee hive
assailed by wasps and hornets.
Logan was horrified by what he saw.
There was not a single Bore, but many. This was intelligence the council was desperate to know. Their dilemma was more profound than they realized.
Logan slid back down the stone and propped his back against it. He activated the tactical display, willing its light to shift from blue to red so as not to reveal his position. He minimized the screen, and prayed the device was quick about its business. The space between his thumb and forefinger registered his location, and marked it with a silver star. Behind him the sounds of the beasts rose in intensity. He reminded himself to be quick; the display tended to draw their attention.
The rings grew warm against his flesh, and he knew they mapped the territory.
He was done here. He did what the council asked. Now, it was time to leave. A quick click of the rings deactivated the display.
The skitter of rock above forced him back into position, and he eased his sword from its scabbard.
Logan pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the ledge. A snuffling sounded above. A crouping cough, closer than the others pierced the air above him. Another answered it to the left, and a moment later, from the right.
He was surrounded by shrulks.
He tightened his grip on his sword and stilled his breathing. His hearing, while acute, was a poor substitute for a visual on his enemy. It was too easy for his mind to fill in the absent information and jump to a false assessment of the situation. So instead, he held still, and waited for them to move into range.
I can do this, he thought. I held for twelve rounds alone in the Menace.
The shrulks pulled away from the ledge, though by the sounds they made, he knew they were still in close proximity.
He was content to wait. He needed the respite, tired from his long trek. He had limited opportunity to rest since his arrival. He allowed his breathing to slow, and entered a trance-like state that was halfway between asleep and awake, being mindful to keep his sin'del close. It was a skill the Elc’atar insisted the Yearlings learn, purportedly for situations just like this.