by Molles, DJ
“Well, regardless,” Stuber said, leaning forward and unlacing his boots in front of the burning cylinder. “Thanks for the fire.”
Whimsby stood, frowning at Perry’s longstaff. “Most interesting. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a longstaff used like that before.”
“Yeah, well,” Perry eyed the weapon in his hand, feeling oddly light at heart and…well, good. “I think most demigods aren’t needing to start campfires out in the wilderness, huh?”
Stuber pulled his wet boots off, followed by his socks, and set them next to the fire.
“Do you have to?” Sagum groaned, wrinkling his nose.
Stuber nodded. “Yes. And you should, too. A soldier always takes care of their feet. You want them to rot off into nubs, just keep ‘em in those soggy shoes of yours. See what sort of bacteria develops. It’ll be a fun experiment.”
In the end, everyone save Whimsby took off their boots and socks and then the cave didn’t just smell like dank mustiness, now it smelled like dirty feet. Everyone’s toes were pale and pruny. But it was a shared misery, and a misery shared becomes something to laugh at.
“Careful, Teran,” Stuber said, smirking. “You’re starting to smell like a man.”
“No shit,” she said, taking a whiff of herself. “Thinking about a bathe in the river.”
“Oh?” Stuber said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, don’t let me hold you back.”
“Ah,” Whimsby raised a finger from where he sat on his pack. “I’d suggest not entering the river. There’s a strong possibility that the fish in there are…hmm…”
“Aggressive and want to eat us?” Teran offered.
Whimsby smiled. “More or less.”
Sagum, for once, was on Stuber’s side. “Shut up, Whimsby. If she wants to take a bath, she can take a bath.”
“Yeah, Whimsby,” Stuber said, eyeballing the mech. “She’s a strong woman. She can do what she wants.”
Teran sighed, shaking her head. She looked to Perry as though wondering if it would come from his quarter as well. Perry smiled and raised his hands in surrender. “Maybe we should eat?” he offered.
Teran pointed to him. “Hey. Your arm feeling better?”
Perry regarded his upraised left arm. “Oh. Yeah. I guess it is. Still hurts, but at least I can raise it now.” He flexed the arm. The wound still smarted when his skin pulled and shifted, but the tingling in his palm was gone. That was a relief. Maybe he wouldn’t suffer permanent nerve damage after all. You kind of needed both hands if you planned on fighting polymorphs. And demigods. And machines of terror and wrath. Etcetera.
Teran unloaded a portion of her pack, coming up with a ration bar for everyone, while Whimsby passed one of the water bladders around. While they crunched on carbohydrates and vitamins and amino acids, Perry fixed on Whimsby, across the fire from him.
“How far did we make it today?”
“Eighteen miles,” Whimsby said without looking up from the fire. “Approximately.”
Perry nodded. “Not bad for a half a day with a firefight in the middle.”
“Not at all,” Whimsby concurred. He met Perry’s gaze. “So, should we reach the East Ruins, what is your plan, exactly? What are you hoping to accomplish?”
Perry fiddled with his ration bar. “Well, Whimsby, I’m not exactly sure.”
Whimsby tilted his head. “It’s a very long way to walk to not be sure what you’re going to do when we get there.”
Perry nodded. “My father left me a message. On this message he told me that he’d discovered something in old texts referred to as ‘The Source.’ He said that was where the demigods got their powers from. He said it was in the East Ruins, and told me to go there, and find it, and figure out how to use it against the demigods. To empower the humans so that we could fight back.” Perry took a bite and shrugged. “So that’s what we’re doing. We’re going to the East Ruins. And we’re going to find this thing. And we’re going to…figure out what to do from there.”
“Hm,” Whimsby said, thoughtfully. “And you recall Warden Abbas telling you that there was nothing there that you should tangle with?”
Perry stopped chewing. “Yes. But Abbas lied. Didn’t he?”
“He lied about a great many things. But not that.”
Perry’s feelings of wellbeing fled from him. A knot began to form in his gut. “So there’s nothing there?”
Whimsby leaned back and regarded the ceiling of the cave. “Well, now, I wouldn’t say that there’s nothing. Just, perhaps, not what you’re thinking there is.”
“What’s there, then?”
“My duties as a ranger for Warden Abbas and Praesidium, over the last several hundred years, has entailed me patrolling these very hills. On some weeks I fly the hills. On some weeks I fly the mountains near the Glass Flats. Occasionally, I was required to go on longer missions and fly within view of the East Ruins.” Whimsby returned his gaze to the fire. Did he find the flames as fascinating as humans did, or was this an affectation, a part of his programming, to make him more human, like his expressions and mannerisms? “I was not permitted to fly into the East Ruins. There was a demarcation zone, a perimeter, if you will, approximately fifteen miles out from the start of the East Ruins, and no ranger was permitted to cross that line. So I only ever saw the East Ruins at a distance.”
“What were you looking for on your patrols?” Stuber asked.
“People,” Whimsby answered. “And anything else of note. If it was people, my directive was to kill them immediately. There are no humans allowed past the Glass Flats. In fact, you are the first humans to step foot in these hills since the gods destroyed the world.”
Sagum extended his slender hands to the flames, warming them. “Sounds like a lot of effort to keep people out of the East Ruins, if there wasn’t actually anything worthwhile there.”
“It is,” Whimsby nodded. “Which brings me to my point: My duties were not simply to prevent humans from going into the Glass Flats, but also to observe and report if anything came out of it.”
“Like what?” Perry asked.
“I was never told. My programming directive was as follows: Observe and immediately report on any object, organic or mechanical, or of any unidentified make heretofore unknown, operating or moving under its own power, that leaves the demarcation line, and, when feasible, intervene, destroy, or delay said object.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Stuber said.
“Alas, I was never able to ascertain what it was that the paladins wished to prevent from leaving the East Ruins.”
“Machines of terror and wrath,” Perry mused. “Abbas called them ‘Guardians.’”
“Well, now, those are actually there.”
Perry raised his eyebrows. “Abbas was telling the truth? You’ve seen them?”
Whimsby nodded. “During my flybys of the demarcation line. My enhanced vision allowed me, on clear days, to view the streets of the East Ruins. And on more than one occasion, I observed such things, roaming freely about the city.”
Teran frowned. “Well, what are they? Are they mechs?”
Whimsby shook his head. “The Guardians were not made by the paladins. They are mechanical in nature, and clearly equipped with ample weaponry, so I believe they fit into your description of ‘machines of terror and wrath.’ Though, admittedly, I’ve never observed them being terrible or wrathful. Only patrolling.”
Sagum appeared fascinated by this. “What do they look like?”
“They are spherical,” Whimsby answered. “Approximately fifteen feet in diameter. They hover roughly five feet off the ground. They do not contain organic life forms inside of them, so I believe they are artificial intelligences, or perhaps controlled remotely.” Whimsby shrugged. “These are only theories.”
“That’s incredible,” Sagum marveled.
“Wait,” Perry said, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “If the demigods didn’t put them there, then who did?”
“My understanding is that the g
ods put them there.”
Perry propped his elbows onto his knees. “So the gods destroy the world with weapons capable of flattening half a mountain range into a sea of glass, but they leave one city standing, and then put a bunch of robots in it? That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Well, I’m sure they had good reasons,” Whimsby said. “Their reasoning is, unfortunately, nothing I’ve ever had access to.”
“What are the Guardians doing? Just keeping people out? It seems like the demigods are already doing that pretty well.”
“Keeping people out,” Whimsby allowed. “Or keeping something in.”
“Or guarding The Source,” Perry said, triumphantly. “Look, you said yourself that there’s been all sorts of misinformation from the paladins. They wouldn’t even tell you what you were looking for on patrols. Isn’t it possible that they’ve lied about the existence of The Source? Maybe that’s what my father uncovered.”
Whimsby considered this for a moment. “It is possible that I’ve been given misinformation. It’s also possible that your father—forgive me for saying it—misinterpreted his findings somehow. You know full well that Confluence is not something that can simply be imparted to any random human being. It is genetic, passed on from generation to generation.”
Perry tried to think back to the teachings he’d been forced to listen to at the old Temple his Uncle Sergio would drag him to on occasion. He tried to recall the words of the Ortus Deorum, but it had been so many years since he’d heard them, that it all twisted about in his head. Besides, hadn’t that been the thing his father had been specific about? That the lies came from the Ortus Deorum itself?
“Whimsby, how much do you know about the Ortus Deorum?” Perry asked.
“I have the full text downloaded.” Whimsby smiled brightly. “Would you care for a reading?”
Perry smirked. “Just a paraphrasing would be fine.”
Whimsby looked crestfallen.
“What does the Ortus Deorum say about where Confluence came from?”
Whimsby nodded and straightened. “Well. To paraphrase…in the Third Song, Stanzas One, Two, and Three, it tells the tale of how Batu the Trickster got his brother, Rennok, drunk, and convinced him to ask the gods—the ones referred to in the text as the ‘All-Kind’—for more powers in order to rule over humanity. The All-Kind did not want to give them more powers, and so they told them, essentially, to make-do. However, there was another race of gods who served the All-Kind, and they were called the Ferox, and they were the warriors for the All-Kind. The Ferox decided to go behind the All-Kind’s backs, and they sent the sons of Primus the ‘Three Givers,’ who bestowed on them the gifts of Strength, Wisdom, and the Power of Death.”
Whimsby stopped and eyed Perry. “Did that answer your questions?”
The old teachings came back to Perry as he listened, and he nodded thoughtfully, then frowned into the fire. How much of it was true? His father had said that there were lies woven throughout it, but did that mean the entire thing was false? Or just specific sections? And were they false because they were interpreted wrong? Or were they flat out deceit?
Perry grunted and leaned forward to get closer to the warmth. “I dunno. The Givers…was that Confluence that they gave? And if that’s the case, didn’t you say that Confluence is strictly genetic? Wouldn’t the nine sons of Primus gotten Confluence from him?”
Whimsby nodded. “Not much is known about Paladin Primus outside of what is written in the Ortus Deorum. It never states exactly what Primus was, but it implies that he was of the same race of beings as the All-Kind. No one really knows what the All-Kind were, and if they possessed Confluence.”
“So the Givers?” Teran interjected. “Are they fictional?”
“Well,” Whimsby crossed his arms. “The gift of the power of death was likely a reference to Confluence. It is generally agreed that the Ferox did give the sons of Primus something, though it likely didn’t come in three separate parcels, from three separate Ferox. But that is just conjecture.”
Stuber grumbled and slid down on his pack into a resting position, closing his eyes and lacing his fingers over his chest. “All this theology makes me sleepy.”
“Yes,” Whimsby said. “Sleep would be wise. Your organic forms will deteriorate without enough of it, and you must all remain as sharp as possible.” He paused, seeming to want to say something else.
Perry prompted him with a look.
“There is another thing that you might be interested in,” Whimsby said. “It is a song, and you may find it pleasant to hear as you attempt to relax into sleep.”
“Mm,” Stuber said. “I do enjoy songs. Can you sing well, Whimsby?”
“I am capable of modulating my voice in a manner that would be pleasant for your ears. I can also imitate quite well the voice of the woman who first sang it.”
Stuber opened a single eye. “That would be weird. Just sing it in your voice.”
Perry nodded in agreement.
“Very well,” Whimsby nodded. “The reason you might find the song interesting, Perry, is that it alludes to some of the things we have just spoken about. It was written shortly after the destruction, but prior to the unification of the world under the demigods. It was outlawed soon after that as being heretical. And as you well know, things viewed as heretical often contain elements of truth.”
“Okay,” Perry said, settling back and crossing his feet. “Let’s hear it, Whimsby.”
Whimsby straightened again, like he was preparing to perform. He opened his mouth and what came out was his own voice, but with a surprisingly mellow and resonant quality to it. The melody was somehow both melancholic and cheerful, as though that long-ago woman who had written it mourned the loss of the world she’d known, but had also reconciled herself to a new reality.
“When we were young
And the gift of life was still new and fun,
And evil lost, and good always won.
When we looked to the sky and thought
The King had come.
“The King came down and made a vow,
And the queens gave their hands,
And we all bowed
And love was in the air
And everything seemed fair.
“But that king, he was neither man nor beast,
And the sky boiled
And the sun set in the east,
And nine times we begged for peace,
But nine devils were released.
“And the devils danced and they set the mood,
With fire and blood as their marching tune
And we sought to find
The face of the moon
But he had turned away.
“Then angels came, so we prayed to them,
But they had more in common with their devil friends
So they threw a feast and we toasted the end.
“Then the angels and the devils tossed the dice,
The wager a gift they’d been given thrice,
A strong man,
And a wise one,
And one who knew how to kill.
“When God came down he was a regular guy
And he saw what had happened and began to cry,
But it wasn’t enough to untangle the lie,
And we all knew there was nothing
Left to believe.
“Then the King lost his crown and then ran away
And the angels fought and the devils raged
And we all hit our knees to pray
But no one could hear what we
Had to say.
“So the devils joked and made God smile,
And the angels were asked to leave for a while.
Then God left us to the devil’s wiles
Because he had more important
Things to do.
“And the priests burned their books and said ‘I guess we were wrong.’
And the devils taught them a brand new song
And all we’d known wa
s so long gone
That it might have
Been a dream.
“So close your eyes and stay asleep
And pray the devils your soul to keep
Because heaven hasn’t the time to heed
The dreams of people like
You and me.
“But I’ll always remember when we were young
And the gift of life was new and fun
And God only had a single son
And we hadn’t met
So we could still imagine
He was like
Anyone.”
As Whimsby concluded the final note, he smiled at them. But all of them stared back at him, frowning, and not looking particularly restful.
“I think that’s enough for now,” Perry said, quietly. “Thanks, Whimsby.”
“Of course, sir,” Whimsby replied, still smiling as though he’d sung children a soothing lullaby.
They did all manage to fall asleep—they were too exhausted not to. But the dreams of all four were filled with boiling skies, and dancing devils, and a king that had run away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A DUEL
“Perry,” the voice whispered.
Perry’s eyes shot open. He must not have been sleeping very deeply, because he was immediately and fully awake. The fire still glimmered, but lower now. Whimsby knelt over Perry, his hand touching Perry’s shoulder.
Whimsby’s eyes were up, focused on the mouth of the cave.
Perry grabbed the longstaff at his side. The Calm. The red glow. The gentle thrumming of the weapon’s power against his fingertips.
“What’s wrong?” Perry whispered back.
Whimsby nodded towards the cave entrance. “Something’s out there.”
Perry sat up—quietly, so as not to wake the others. Stuber’s sleep was always on a hair trigger, and though he still lay on his back with his arms folded across his chest, Perry saw the glint of firelight in his open eyes. Perry raised a finger to his lips.
Stuber eased upright, drawing his rifle into his lap.
Teran didn’t stir. Sagum snored softly.