Dark Ends

by Clayton Snyder

  He stepped closer and the knot of people finally noticed him. The citizen patrollers froze, eyes wild. Tashué went still, but his back went straight and his shoulders squared. Instead of being afraid, he looked to have settled somehow. He didn’t even look at the gun in Glaen’s hand. Instead he looked Glaen in the eye.

  “Glaen.” The sound of Tashué’s voice cut through the roaring in Glaen’s ears. He sounded sad and worn. He wasn’t the same man. But then no one stayed the same for long. The world was too cruel for that. “I’m so terribly sorry. For everything.”

  Glaen grit his teeth, fighting for the fury again. “Damn you! How dare you apologize! Do you know what you’ve taken from me? Do you know what you’ve done? Haven’t you even the sense to be afraid for your own life?”

  Tashué didn’t seem to know what to say to that, but Glaen didn’t wait. He raised the gun, pointing it at Tashué’s broad chest. The citizen patrollers burst into action, reaching for their pistols, hands clawing uselessly at the holsters beneath their jackets. They seemed to know they were too slow. They turned their bodies away from Tashué, letting go of his arms, giving him an opportunity to escape. He didn’t run. He stood and met Glaen’s eyes and waited.

  It took more strength than Glaen would have thought to squeeze the trigger of the big revolver and it was slower than he expected—or perhaps each moment stretched out forever. The gun bucked in his hand, the blast so loud Glaen’s ears rang. Smoke burned his eyes. Glaen didn’t see where the bullet took Tashué, or if it had even hit him at all.

  The citizen patrollers started firing, a cacophony of blasts. Something punched Glaen in the chest and something else in the shoulder, a throbbing, powerful pain that felt as if Glaen had been hit by a pair of bricks. His legs trembled beneath him, no longer having the strength to keep him upright. He was falling, crumpling, but he squeezed the trigger again and the gun roared. Another burst of fire answered, and more brick-impacts took him in the leg, in the side, again in the chest. He twisted as he fell, the ground rearing up fast, the cold cobbles of Highfield smashing against his cheek, but then something hot was pooling beneath him, sticky and thick, like he had fallen into that vile clay pot filled with chicken blood. He tasted it. His vision went red as it spread around his face.

  Gianna stood over him. Her face was no longer grey and decayed and stained with blood. She looked alive again, skin smooth and tanned and lovely, as he had been trying so hard to remember. Her hair was combed and cleaned—and the maple leaves were there again, rosy red, different than the oak leaves and the moss that he’d seen in her hair the day she’d died. Her eyes were no longer milky and empty, but bright and alive and so filled with love that Glaen felt himself crying, his tears hot and wet on his face. Everything he wanted in the world was contained in those beautiful, lively eyes. He used to see his future when he met her gaze.

  He relaxed as he stared at her. Everything was right again. Just as she had in his terrible nightmare, she leaned down for a kiss. This time, he didn’t cringe, didn’t turn away. This time, he arched up toward her, eager to taste her lips again without the taste of her blood. They were so very soft and warm and it was the last thing he felt before he slipped away into darkness.

  Luke Tarzian

  Luke Tarzian was born in Bucharest, Romania until his parents made the extremely poor choice of adopting him less than six months into his life. As such, he’s resided primarily in the United States and currently lives in California with his wife and their infant daughters. Fascinated by psychology and the work of Edgar Allan Poe, and inspired by his own anxieties, his character-driven fiction functions as a meditation on emotion, most commonly grief. His debut novel, Vultures, introduced a surreal, demon-ridden world where dreams are sometimes more than dreams and magic, memories, and misery are heavily entwined. Vultures is the first book in the Shadow Twins trilogy with a prequel novella entitled The World Maker Parable due out April 2020.

  The Laughing Heart follows the early years of one Cailean Catil, introduced initially in Vultures. Still reeling from the death of his husband Bar, a young Cailean takes up arms against the fallen angel Galska Nuul in an effort to release the city of Harbanan from the monster’s hold. But as Cailean quickly learns, things aren’t exactly what they seem. Once marked, always marked.

  PROLOGUE: THE TRAUMA

  Time Unknown

  There was only darkness in this place.

  So far as Cailean could tell, that was all there ever had been, immeasurable and smothering. A frigid swaddling that forced him into endless introspection, endless recollection of the trauma that had brought him to this void. A trauma that had woken with a yawn, then risen to a scream within his mind as he relived the cold and horrible desolation of his world, of all that he had loved.

  This is death. The thought was riddled with uncertainty. Cailean had never put much stock in Rapture, in the Second Life, or whatever the hell came after death. But now? He touched the spot on his chest where in life the dagger had found its mark. It was smooth, unsullied by the trauma of his end; the entirety of his flesh was soft as silk. The longer he lingered on the spot, the deeper into memory he fell. The cathedral. The bodies. The betrayal and a voice like buzzing flies.

  "Once marked, always marked," it whispered. A terrible grin stretched wide and stark across the void. It yawned and a serpent's tongue of starlight flicked his way.

  Cailean struggled not as it took him in a cold but tender embrace. Tears dripped down his cheeks and along his jaw. What a fool he'd been. What an ignorant, fucking fool.

  He closed his eyes to the monstrous maw, once again enveloped by the memory of his end. Spellbound by the cosmic gaze of Galska Nuul, tantalized by his touch as the fallen angel's dagger sheathed itself in Cailean's heart.

  CHAPTER ONE: MISERY

  Then—The Month of Cemb, Black Year 1154

  Four Days Before the End

  Bar was dead and there was nothing Cailean could do to bring his husband back.

  It'd been a month, but the agony of his loss had made it feel a year. Thirty days without Bar's touch, without his scent, without his laughter and his words. Thirty long, inebriated days of snarling, tears, and guilt. Of self-inflicted wounds and sleepless nights. Would that he could, Cailean liked to think he'd slaughter time as retribution for the misery games it played.

  He leaned against the balustrade of the tavern balcony, gazing out at the moonlit sea. Across it lay the Ariathan realm, the origin of his blood. And across it he had come, dishonorably discharged for having lain his weapons down. Treason, Ariath had said. Exile, they'd enjoined. All for having had the spine to lay down arms in protest of preemptive village culls. Fighting demons did things to the mind. It imbued the xenophobes with zeal. Sucked sanity from the sane. Made monsters out of men and cast humanity aside.

  "Thought I might find you here."

  "Leyandra," Cailean said, still gazing at the sea. While he adored the young woman, he wished she'd leave him be. She meant well, but sometimes solitude was better left untouched. "You need something?" His words were sharper than he'd meant. "Sorry. Just…"

  Leyandra touched his shoulder gently and they watched the sea. Listened to the distant crooning of the waves and the late-night squawks of fishing gulls. It was enough to ease his mind, and he recalled the many times that he and Bar had stood here just the same, basking in each other's warmth, spellbound by the beauty of that shimmering expanse and all that lay beyond.

  "We were going to adopt," Cailean murmured finally. "When things were right."

  Leyandra leaned against him. "He would have been a brilliant father."

  Bar had been a constant presence at the orphanages. Cailean's heart sunk further, wondering if they knew. They had loved Bar as much as he had them. Cailean's shoulders rose, then a ragged sigh escaped his lips.

  "Head to the Beacon," he said. "I'll meet you when I'm done."

  Cailean was a masochist at heart—wandering alone so late in the Forjét Mahn Athuul. The Forest
of Dark Remembrances. A rough translation in the indices of the Galrun Muir. One of countless many kept and archived in that buttressed manor that they called their home. The land on which Harbanan stood was old; there was much to learn, much the spirit of this eldritch realm had left untold.

  But also much that she'd revealed. And right now, Cailean sought what none save the crypt of Lúm Duu'Mahl could give—the illusion of euphoria, a walk through memories of yesteryears. A momentary respite from the misery bedeviling his soul, devouring him from the inside out. Agony to alleviate the anguish.

  Masochism in its purest form.

  The night wept as Cailean neared the crypt. Drops of rain like faerie lips upon his cheeks; soft and forlorn all at once. He thought of Bar, of his touch, his kisses, and his eyes, all lost to memory, and let the pain constrict his heart. This was what he'd come for, after all. Yet this was foreplay in comparison to the crypt.

  Or so the indices relayed.

  He came to a gate in a glade, on either side of which stood effigies of the angel Lúm Duu'Mahl. She beckoned with an upturned palm, and her feathered wings curved in such a way that Cailean felt a modicum of warmth, a bead that started in his chest and emanated outward, growing more profound for every second that he held the statues' gaze. The first of things remembered in this wood of yore. He hadn't felt this warm in months.

  Cailean pushed the gate ajar and stepped inside. Before him lay a maw of weathered stone, and around it, daffodils. Beautiful, yes, but as woebegotten as the Forjét Mahn Athuul, for the only time the flowers grew was when a person died. Cailean wondered if there might be one for Bar.

  He hoped there was.

  Whispers grazed his ears, and Cailean started toward the crypt. Light bloomed within, brighter yet for every downward step he took, tempering to a pale and soothing blue as the stairway leveled out. The room was small and saturated with a scent like dust and earth. Save the casket and the effigy of Lúm Duu'Mahl it was rather plain.

  "Once more you grace this place my bones call home." The voice was soft and unsurprised.

  Cailean knelt and bowed his head. He closed his eyes, trying to picture Lúm Duu'Mahl in a sea of grass. The very same he'd seen in dreams. The golden field in which he'd married Bar. The angel came, lithe, composed of feathered wings and light, a hood drawn past her eyes. As had her effigies, she beckoned with an upturned palm and Cailean obeyed, allowing her to pull him close and swathe him gently in her wings.

  "Once more that summer dusk," the angel said. "Is this what your heart desires most?"

  It was, in the way an addict craves their fix. Cailean clung to Lúm Duu'Mahl. "Yes."

  "Then I will make it so," the angel said. "And I will pray you someday flee this tomb of memory."

  An unrequited prayer if ever there had been.

  He blinked, and Lúm Duu'Mahl was gone. Where once she'd been stood Bar, boring into Cailean with those sunset eyes; Keepers knew how many times he'd gotten lost in them. They were hand in hand, smiling like fools. Of all the stupid things they'd done…

  "Makes the day-to-day feel tame," said Cailean, and he hoped he'd been profound.

  Bar rolled his eyes. "You going to keep on blathering, man, or have you strength enough to hold your tongue and kiss me lest I leave you here unwed?"

  Cailean flashed a rueful grin. He wrapped his arms around Bar's waist and pulled him close, capturing his lips. They stayed like that a while. Bar ran his hands through Cailean's hair, his touch electric, sending shivers down his spine.

  At last, Bar pulled away.

  Cailean gazed upon him fondly. "What now?"

  Bar offered a melancholy smile.

  Then, he fell to ash, just as he had a month ago in the dark of night.

  It was black as pitch when Cailean emerged from the Forjét Mahn Athuul. Nary a star to paint the sky, not that he cared. What would they do save twinkle as souls were devoured, as children were flayed, as mothers and babes were boiled alive?

  As Bar fell to ash in the wind?

  Cailean cursed the stars, then Galska Nuul, and finally himself. He should have been quicker. He should have been closer. He should have known they were walking into a trap.

  But he wasn't, and he hadn't.

  He balled his hands into fists, tensed his jaw as he entered the grounds of the Galrun Muir, the Beacon looming, spired and pretentious. Windows were betrayed by dots of light, the entryway by azure flames from lanterns hanging on the walls. Cailean stalked his way to the courtyard, past others in long coats emblazoned with roses and ravens the color of snow. The family crest of Gabriel Muir, the man for whom the Order was named.

  The courtyard was abuzz, and it was only when he reached the double doors of the manor that Cailean learned why.

  Leyandra met his gaze. Her brow was etched with worry, but something hungry flashed inside her eyes. "Made it just in time for the briefing."

  Cailean's heart was pounding in his chest. Instinct whispered this was something big. "Tell me."

  Leyandra pushed the doors ajar, then gave a backward glance. "Galska Nuul."

  CHAPTER TWO: MEDICATION

  Then—The Month of Cemb, Black Year 1154

  Two Days Before the End

  Waiting was the worst.

  Cailean ached to drive a blade between the fallen angel's eyes. Galska Nuul would die a slow and painful death, and Cailean would drag his dagger through the monster's flesh for every soul consumed, for every life extinguished by the madness he had wrought. He would carve the deepest mark for Bar.

  But first he had to wait.

  Snow fell. Cailean walked the Beacon courtyard with his collar up and hands shoved deep inside his pockets. It was a hollow dawn; the world was little more than shades of gray above a gelid shroud. In a way it reminded him of home.

  "Ariath," he whispered, thoughts falling to the demon war that raged beyond the eastern sea. He'd heard little in the last two years. Though considering the reasons why he'd left, why he'd been dishonorably discharged, he wasn't sure he cared. Not for the architects of bloodshed and the means by which they'd sown their xenophobic zeal. Not for a king who lacked a spine, whose fears infected Ariath like a plague and strung him as a puppet for the Church. They could burn for all he cared. Preemptive culling had a way of souring one's concern while tarnishing their faith.

  He met Leyandra at the northmost edge of the courtyard. She'd sent a message—there was whiskey to collect and daggers to be dipped. Cailean hoped these tasks would be enough to occupy his mind lest thoughts of vengeance drive him mad or into recklessness.

  This was not your mother's whiskey.

  This was not the piss that taverns served for sipping in the eve.

  This was something else. Something old, wrought by masters with the aid and blessing of the angel Nor Vaa'Dahn. Consecrated by her blood to imbue consumers with her strength and amplify intrinsic capabilities. This was the drink of a conservator, of a man that met the night with blades in hand and fire in his eyes.

  This was the whiskey of the Galrun Muir.

  Cailean turned the spigot handle and the flow of liquid ceased. He corked the vial and set it to the side, allowing himself a moment's worth of rest. He'd been at this for an hour and his hands were sore; there were plenty more to fill.

  He leaned against the column at his back, inhaling fumes of consecration. Smooth and smoky like a fire in the night. Whiskey, weaponized yet soothing all at once. It eased his mind and Cailean heaved a sigh.

  "We're going to cut that bastard down," Leyandra said. She mimicked Cailean's posture and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "We're going to end this, just you wait."

  Cailean smiled wryly. He produced a knife from the inner pocket of his coat and tossed it, watching it flip. It descended and he caught it by the hilt. Wait—his favorite thing to do. Wait, while the world dissolved. While chaos reigned supreme. He tossed the knife a second time. It arced above his head, finding purchase in the post. He left it there and paced the room. "Waiting. T
he irony…"

  "How do you mean?" Leyandra asked.

  "In Ariath, abandon pushed forbearance off a cliff," said Cailean. "We slaughtered thousands out of fear; we forsook our mantles as custodians for those of injudicious zealots. And here? The Galrun Muir have grown reserved where they should not."

  "It was a war," Leyandra said of Ariath. "Against chameleon antagonists."

  Cailean wheeled around. "Demons. It was a war against demons, yet how many towns and villages were we made to cull? How many lives were lost to the madness of preemptive strikes, to the Seraph's bigotry and our sovereign's fear?" He closed his eyes to the memories. "How can you defend them after what they did, what they made us do, what they did and tried to do to you?"

  Leyandra was silent. Cailean opened his eyes and met her gaze. She looked irked, forlorn. There was shame there too. She scratched at her wrists; each bore a crisscross of scars. Like Cailean, she too had been dishonorably discharged. Unlike Cailean, Leyandra wasn't human; she'd descended from the demons Ariath fought. Her expulsion had been purely prejudiced and the scars she bore betrayed that fact.

  "They branded you when you no longer met their needs." Cailean approached, took Leyandra's hands in his. "Ley, they tried to kill you in the dark of night, to pass it off as self-defense…" A man and woman they had served with, had considered friends.

  Cailean had decapitated both.

  "Because," she finally answered, "I understand their fear."