Elowyn tried to remember the directions written on the sheet of paper Mairyn gave her. She remained certain she followed them correctly, but as she stood in the corner of an alley flanked on both sides by industrial plants, her confidence dwindled. Through the sewage pipe ... she thought to herself, wrinkling her nose behind her helmet at the unpleasant reality that awaited her.
Then, she spotted it. A circular opening jutting out of a brick wall. It looked unassuming. Larger than most traditional sewage pipes, and out of place in the fact that it did not appear to run below ground. With little other options, Elowyn approached it. She placed her armored hand on the lip of the pipe, as she ducked her head down to peer in.
She saw nothing but blackness. Blackness accompanied by the smell of human shit.
While it didn’t appear to operate as a customary sewage pipe, citizens seemed to have had no qualms emptying their piss pots into the hole. As Elowyn lowered her legs into the opening, she tried to remind herself that this wasn’t the first time she’d been covered in bodily fluids. It came hand in hand with being a medic. It was that mantra alone that kept her from gagging as she slid her iron-encased body down the narrow opening.
Though she couldn’t see an inch in front of her face, she felt the pipe slant downward. The air around her cooled the farther she descended. Before long, a dim light appeared at the bottom of the tunnel. Her greaves touched the ground and she slid herself out of the claustrophobic tube, happy to leave the intensified scent of feces behind her.
Elowyn’s travels brought her to an unfamiliar place. Stretching out before the slits in her helm, a cavernous environment met her partially obscured vision. Dancing torchlight flickered off the fragile sides of countless tents, kept alive by basins of oil. The movement of shadows in the distance, which Elowyn identified as people, carried on without noticing her. Flattened surfaces, carved away by the hands of men, stretched out beneath her feet. While some surfaces boasted a finished appearance, others were in a clear state of incompleteness, as if the efforts were abandoned.
She did not receive much time to soak in the rest of her environment before the blade of a halberd touched the armor around her throat. Elowyn did not move, choosing to avoid escalating any unnecessary confrontations.
“Who are you?” a voice questioned, authoritative and demanding.
Without turning, Elowyn offered an answer. “I was sent here by Mairyn Catteral.”
The man assessed the suit of metal worn by the new arrival. Authentic, Eastern-issued materials. The individual’s presence seemed legitimate. Though he withdrew the halberd, he remained skeptical. “Did Mairyn also tell you to barrel in without warning? You’re either very brave or very stupid, soldier.”
Elowyn still refused to move, but she took some relief in the man’s removal of his weapon. When she turned, she realized he offered a hand to help her to her feet. She reached out her iron glove and accepted, coming to a stand. “Catty didn’t tell me much,” she said. “Just that you could use my help.” Elowyn gazed at the hollow space, unsure how a dwelling like this existed in Eastern without her knowledge. “What is this place?”
The man looked out to those who lived farther in the camp. A few soldiers were present, wearing the appropriate ensembles that dictated their ranks. Even more civilians subsisted in the distance. Women and children, hovering over cauldrons sitting in beds of fire. Various scents of primitive stews greeted Elowyn’s nose, and she was grateful for a reprieve from the ever-present stench of human waste.
“An unfinished project of Avital York,” the unidentified man stated, gesturing around them both. “When he ran out of space above ground, he thought he could utilize the space below ground, as well, effectively doubling his industrial efforts. This was the first underground test city he commissioned, but it only got as far as this before it was deemed too dangerous to continue.” The man shook his head. “The integrity of the ground was too brittle. The project was decommissioned shortly after. This is all that remains. We thought we’d make the most of it.”
Elowyn soaked in the sight of it all, an incomplete underground world built on greed. She clenched her teeth, finally turning to steal a glimpse of the man who nearly slit her throat. A classic soldier, a symbol of Eastern through and through. Short hair, square jaw, broad shoulders. A copy of almost every footman she ever came across. “I take it you don’t get many visitors,” she muttered.
“We prefer it that way.” The man rested the pole of his halberd against his shoulder. “It’s hard to know who to trust since the lesser gods invaded. We do not have many supplies, so we keep our numbers small. These are the friends and family of Eastern soldiers, and not a soul more.”
Elowyn nodded. She seized the medallion given to her by Mairyn Catteral and held it out to the man as if that would validate her presence. “Seems like a wise way to keep resources attainable.”
He glanced down at the medal and nodded, recognizing it for its worth. “They are hard to come by. We do not make many surface trips, to limit the chances of discovery.” He cast a scrutinizing look toward her. Though she could not see it well, she felt it, even in the darkness. “What do you have to offer us, soldier?”
Elowyn assessed him, as well. She was not one to feed her plan to useless individuals. He appeared fit, lucid, capable: the clear leader of this band of underground dwellers, who did not shy away from protecting them from uninvited guests. He’d have to do. “I believe I can stop the lesser gods from affecting the minds of men. But I need help breaking into the new medical facility. I know supplies are few, but I’ll need them if I’m to make any achievements.”
The man spat, disgusted. “A waste of money from the division leader who abandoned us. It’ll be of no help.” His arms crossed and his level of scorn returned. “And that’s an awfully big claim to boot.”
“I have a background in pharmaceutical sciences,” Elowyn shot back, her voice firm and unyielding. “I know I can utilize that to our advantage. Let’s just leave it at that for now. No use explaining it if I can’t get the goods.”
The soldier scowled. He shook his head. “Our ‘insightful leader’ Elowyn Saveign has turned Eastern into a division full of medical professionals,” he muttered, his loathing evident as the words rolled off his tongue. “What makes you so sure you can do what countless others haven’t?”
“Because,” she interjected, her expression flat behind her helm. “I’m better than they are.”
Against everything, the soldier emitted a haughty laugh. “Arrogant or confident, I cannot say.” His amusement faded, replaced once more by a dose of injected caution. “What’s a warrior need a background in medicine for?”
Without missing a beat, Elowyn muttered, “You want a feckin’ novice sewing your gods-damn arm back on when it gets ripped off in battle?”
Silence followed. Then a grin. The man lowered an accepting hand onto the hard metal of her pauldron. “All right, soldier. Let’s talk. Maybe we can help each other. Besides, any friend of Mairyn’s is a friend of ours.” The commanding presence in his voice slipped for a moment. “Edgar Catteral was a good man.” A brief moment of quiet passed between them before he returned his gaze to her. “My name is Wulfgang Hion.”
Elowyn smirked. “Of course it is.”
Wulfgang arched a brow, confused, but shook it off. “What did you say your name was again?”
The Time Mother wavered. She remembered the words of Mairyn Catteral as she stared at Wulfgang’s face. She needed to maintain the illusion that she was a soldier. A man. From behind the armor of Mairyn Catteral’s deceased husband, she said, “Friends just call me E.P.”
Wulfgang nodded, extending his hand to shake. “Well, then, E ... welcome to the Underground.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Avigail thought she’d feel the efforts of her travels in her legs more than she did. It must have been adrenaline that kept tired muscles at bay as she trekked to Striburn. Her arms should have ached from carrying her pack of supplies
, despite how limited they were.
Her throat cracked with dryness—but at least the residual smoke that still lived in the Northwestern skies did not burn her eyes. She impressed herself. The miles she covered were unprecedented. The soles of her feet throbbed with a rawness the first time she had tried escaping from Edephat’s Home for Girls, but now, she felt nothing.
The lingering smoke failed to singe the walls of her nostrils, but she still smelled it in the air. She found herself grateful it continued to hover in the atmosphere. It helped cover the scent of the rotting dead. The flames spared her the horror of humanizing the corpses; most of what made them men and women had melted away, but Avigail knew what the charred lumps of darkened tumors on the ground used to be.
She wondered if any of them used to be her father.
The airship was nowhere in sight. It was a bulky thing, hard to hide, particularly when most of the landscape was leveled by mass destruction. Avigail ran her tongue across the splitting skin on her lips, hoping the small amount of moisture would bring her chapped mouth reprieve. She walked more, farther into the open arms of the desolate Northwestern town.
Nobody remained to question. The place existed solely as a ghost town. As Avigail spun in a complete circle to take everything in, she doubted even spirits would choose to linger in this place.
Her eyes fell to the ground and her face scrunched together. Avigail slid her pack off her shoulder as she knelt to the earth, reaching out to place a gentle hand on the disturbed layer of ash. Wilted red petals from a sea of dying anemone flowers hid the ground. She brushed them away. Pressed down into the half-inch thick sheet of dust that coated Northwestern, was the unmistakable shape of a dog’s paw print.
Granite’s beast.
She followed the tracks with her eyes, some easier to find than others. The animal had no clear path. It was a wild and unpredictable thing. After some effort, she trailed it to a perfect, vertical line. The place where the ramp of the airship came to rest, she guessed. Avigail verified this when she saw the unmistakable pattern of tire tracks, large and almost certainly belonging to the airship’s landing gear.
They were here.
But they weren’t here anymore.
Whether that was because they moved on to another town or because they perished, the young Houton daughter had no educated guess. Avigail thought, perhaps, the absence of the airship indicated they moved on. But as she took in the condition of the buildings and structures made from materials that matched or surpassed the airship in durability, she wasn’t sure. If the fire possessed enough strength to decimate a civilization, she ventured that it wouldn’t be beyond comprehension that it could swallow all evidence of an airship too.
Avigail depended on her father still being in Vadim’s home town when she left. She cursed herself for not thinking it through. Rash, impetuous decisions put her in precarious situations before, but nothing that matched this. The last thing she knew was Revi Houton would be here. But he was not. She had no other leads.
Desperation grew inside her. It started out small, a seed, but it split and flourished until it filled the interior of her body. It was the kind of desperation that reminded her of all the people she had encountered along the way. The people on the steam train in Southeastern and Southern. The people she saw wandering through the ravaged lands of Northwestern. The people who ranted and raved about gods and goddesses, and everything that came along with them.
Avigail pressed her lips together. The sound of complete nothingness touched her ears. It was the kind of silence that felt so unnatural, her brain tricked her into thinking she heard a distant, high-pitched noise just to ease the burden of being walled in by oblivion. She thought again of the people. Of their stories. Despairing times called for risky actions.
People were not all bad. Avigail thought she had Revi pegged. That he was nothing more than a coward absent of redeemable qualities. But what she’d discerned from Everly and Thom ... what she learned now, staring at the peril he willingly threw himself into for the sake of others ... she couldn’t fully believe that anymore.
If the lesser gods were born of men, as some of the people she encountered claimed, then surely not all lesser gods were bad. They were born to answer prayers, weren’t they? And even if they weren’t ... even if her dicey gamble did not pan out ... she learned in her travels that lesser gods could not physically harm humans.
As her eyes scanned the destruction that stood before her, she doubted that last thought very much. But without any ideas as to where Revi could have gone, or whether or not he was still alive, she couldn’t see beyond the necessity of the risk. Avigail tried to swallow, but her lack of saliva left her throat empty. Her chest felt empty as she lifted her eyes to the dead sky.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know who I’m talking to, or if I’m even talking to anybody.” Her voice lost itself in the endless expanse, but Avigail straightened her posture and continued. “But I need some help. I need to find someone. If the gods are as omnipotent as everyone is saying ... please, send one down to help me.”
Her plea was met with a weak gust of wind. She dug her fingers into the bottom edges of her shirt. Avigail stood for what felt like several long minutes, allowing her legs an opportunity to rest, though it didn’t feel like they needed it.
Optimism dipped. Her jaw clenched and her eyes fell to her feet.
She was on her own. No surprise there. It was a stupid idea, anyway. She didn’t need them. She answered her own prayers since she was a kid, absent of help from anyone else. And that was okay. She was used to it, and she was good at it.
Avigail drew in as deep a breath as she could, though her lungs felt unfulfilled. She walked, unsure where to go. Back to Southeastern, perhaps? The idea of waiting for Revi Houton to return was revolting. She spent her whole life waiting for that man and had no intention of doing it again. But where else was there to go?
With no direction, Avigail tread, content to leave the scattered remnants of this town to rest. She would continue to search Northwestern. Perhaps someone, somewhere, saw him.
She did not get far before she felt the distinctive swirl of uneasiness. The weight of watchful eyes. Avigail stopped. With a slow twist of her neck, she glanced over her shoulder.
The figure looked approachable, unintimidating, though he towered over her at six feet and some odd inches high. Thin strands of luxurious golden hair wafted in an unfelt breeze. Save for the large gray wings that split out from the bones of his spine and shoulder blades, he appeared human. And yet, an indisputable absence of human essence enveloped him. He was nothing if he wasn’t otherworldly.
“Hello, young lady,” he said, his speech all velvet and grace. “I understand you need some help.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Edvard’s trips to the psychiatric facility housing Esther Hiddle became something more than an obligation. What started as a begrudging course of action to glean insight into why the lesser gods had so much success corrupting minds, turned into a surprising event he began to look forward to. Though Esther remained trapped in a madness of the lesser gods’ design, she existed as a unique insight into not only the deities' thoughts but the thoughts of the working poor.
The Western Time Father readjusted the tie that ran down his chest as he climbed the facility’s steps. A small shiver of excitement slithered through him when he made it to the top. Many years had passed since Edvard Addihein felt he brought anything, other than minimum expectations, to the Western division. With Esther’s help, whether she realized it or not, he felt he could initiate a positive change amongst his people. To eliminate, or at least lessen, the obvious gap between those who were most vulnerable to the gods, and those who operated in the small minority of people who had no fear.
It wouldn’t be a stretch to say the last month or so Edvard spent in Esther’s company crafted a strange fondness for the woman in his heart. He smothered a majority of it; the inappropriateness of such feelings was obvious. T
hey hovered in a state of platonic respect and he did not wish to see them leave that place. But Esther’s palpable intelligence shined through her ravings about the gods. Edvard caught glimmers of recognition in her when she spoke of the disparaging differences between the classes. A part of him wondered if she knew how much she helped her social circle by informing him of the agonies they endured. If she knew how her madness might change the way things were done ...
He pulled the door open and entered, having grown accustomed to the stark whiteness of the walls. They seemed like less of a sterile, unwelcomed setting now, and more of a lighted place. A place that, with any luck, would eventually discover the cure to Esther’s psychosis. Edvard approached the front desk and set his hands down on the table.
“Welcome back, Mr. Addihein.”
Edvard frowned. A sadness lingered in his greeter’s tone of voice. “Thank you,” he replied with lingering skepticism. “I’m here to see Esther Hiddle. Patient 245.”
“Yes.” The individual sighed, folding his hands together in front of him. “About Miss Hiddle ...”
The whiteness of the lab coat blended into the white walls behind the operative. Both blurred into nothingness, regaining the off-putting sensation they held when Edvard first entered the doors to meet Esther in the beginning. He almost couldn’t process the words spilling out of the employee’s mouth. They melted together, almost inaudible, but while the Western Time Father’s ears refused to accept the noise as discernable sound, he understood the message.
Esther Hiddle took her own life in the middle of the night.
The operative went on to explain further, detailing that he was surprised it happened. They were careful to remove any objects that might be considered harmful to their patients. In the end, it was the shackles they put around her wrists that were her undoing. Somehow, she managed to break her own arm, which allowed her to twist her body in such a way that permitted the chains to wrap over her neck. She strangled herself long before the morning crew arrived to administer breakfast and the first round of psychotherapy.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 90