Coming to Power

by T J Marquis

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

  “Glad to see I’m needed. Don’t get used to it. Babies can’t live in their playpens forever. You’ll wise up though, of that I have no doubt.”

  They walked on in silence for a bit. The drone of nocturnal insects suffused the air with energy.

  “Mr. Bear?” Jon said. The bear looked at him. “Why can’t we just go straight to Centrifuge now? An army that big, we’d beat them there by at least a few weeks, make sure the people there are ready to defend themselves.”

  “Oh but Jon, that would be along the lines of me just doing the job, or Jeremiah.”

  “And what would be wrong with that? Think of all the lives you might save.”

  “It seems like a fair point on the surface,” said Mr. Bear. “I give you that. But there’s a way to the world, haven’t you seen that? What you see as unfairness, injustice, needless suffering - they are calls for help.”

  “Calls you can answer, if either one of you is powerful enough to stop that Assassin.”

  “Again, seems fair,” said the bear. “But consider. A child is hungry - she needs food. When she’s small and frail, her mother provides not only the food, but the service. The child is never taught to serve herself, or anyone else. She grows up, open hands, waiting to be given what she needs, and surrounds herself with the people who will treat her as she wishes. One day, her elderly neighbor, say, breaks his hip. He needs help - he can’t go to the market alone, can’t stand up to reach the food in his pantry. What does the grown up girl do?”

  “She never learned to help out, or serve others,” Jon said. “I get your point.”

  “So she does nothing. In her mind, mother will come. Mother will protect. Mother will serve. She doesn’t even know she has the power to fulfill another person’s needs. She doesn’t even know, Jon. And she can’t even imagine that one day, she may be the one in such dire need, as helpless as when she was a toddler. What is the best service this girl could receive?”

  “To be taught to serve in turn,” Jon said. He wasn’t sure he agreed, even though he got the point. If Mr. Bear could end all threats in this world as easily as he seemed to claim, why wouldn’t he? What did it matter if it was more philosophically sound for the people of the world to fend for themselves?

  “And thus humans are refined, Jon. You may not agree, and I understand that. You were made to crave peace. Anything less than serenity should feel wrong, lest you sit on your hands and do nothing. But I think someday you will understand better. In the meantime, I should let you go. It’s not good to be up in the middle of the night. Dark things play in these hours.”

  The bear took a sharp turn and started to walk away.

  “Mr. Bear,” Jon said. The bear turned back to him. “It was good to see you again.”

  Mr. Bear stretched out his smile and held up a paw. Jon thought it was supposed to be a thumbs up.

  “You too, Jon. Now fly back to camp before they wake up and find you gone.”

  Jon returned to the Maw, and the barracks, and lay back down.

  No one stirred. They hadn’t even missed him. What would they think of all that Jeremiah and the bear had said? Did Naphte know about the Nulian’s god? He felt he had more questions than ever, but he was grateful for what he had learned.

  Tomorrow they would strike out for Centrifuge, warn its leaders of the coming flood, and make a stand with its people, for better or worse.

  Chapter 13

  Command

  One never forgot the infuriating enervation of humiliation. To be restrained by a creature who had been created to serve others - it was maddening. Despite all the Assassin's training and power, it was helpless as a toddler with his wrist in a mother's iron grip.

  "Don't be angry," said Jeremiah. Then he laughed with real mirth. "Or do. You'll fight him eventually, either way. For now, we walk."

  Adding insult to injury, the guardian had bound him with his power, and was forcing the Assassin to stroll across the land at a measured pace, as if either of them couldn't rush away a thousand times faster than the wind.

  "Why not now?" the Assassin hissed. "If you have so much confidence in him."

  "Please," Jeremiah scoffed. "How many years did it take you to attain this level of power?"

  The Assassin's anger burned the very air that touched its charcoal skin, releasing the hot scent of ozone. How long? It did not possess such memories, and the guardian knew this.

  "A hundred lifetimes?" Jeremiah guessed. "And you expect this mortal, a foreigner to the realms of enchantment, to become your match in a few weeks' time? I thought you were smarter. You ought to be more fair."

  This condescension made the Assassin seethe yet more. Intellect was not a concern, nor was timing, nor any other consideration of fairness or rightness or 'oughtness'. The dark man desired a specific outcome, and the Assassin was to see to it. Anything else, whether delay or failure, was unacceptable. This, too, the guardian would know.

  "Your meddling is an affront to free will," said the Assassin. “You know full well I was there tonight to finish him before he could present even the faintest challenge.”

  The guardian barked a laugh. "And how free is your will? I know your master, and what kind of creature you are. Does he give you a choice? I think not. You'll do as he says, as you've always done."

  They were well east of the Maw now, crossing the golden plains that stretched in all directions. The Assassin gazed into the southeast. In that direction was his army, forming up, resupplying for the final strike against Centrifuge. Surely even the guardian could not stop this pivotal moment in history. And once that City had finally been crushed into dust, the Assassin would have its freedom, as promised. Jeremiah was right, of course - the Assassin did not consider itself a servant, yet disobedience to the dark man would spell an end to its existence.

  "Don't feel bad, shadowling," Jeremiah said, sounding genuinely comforting. "I too have a master - mine's just not so selfish."

  "Will you be prattling on all these thousands of miles we've yet to travel, guardian?" the Assassin snapped. "I'm sure among your brethren, your insights and opinions garner much love and praise, but I've no stomach for your probing words."

  Jeremiah breathed deep, perhaps growing impatient. "You know, I could end you right here and now. I have the authority. That would set you free, in a certain way. Is that what you wish, dark one?"

  The Assassin's ire was piqued again as it found itself actually considering such a release. But no, it would not choose to be so unworthy.

  "You tempt me, do you?" it growled. "And I thought your kind was supposed to be holy."

  "Bah!" Jeremiah bellowed. "With every breath, it's clearer you know nothing. Be content then, wasting what little time you have to choose a different path. You've no clue of the deep workings of this world." He spoke with sadness in his voice. "You ceased to be that dark man's possession when he put flesh on you." Jeremiah stopped walking, pierced the Assassin with his silver gaze.

  "I shall let you return to the Doom on your own," the guardian continued. "But if you assault Jon before the time, I'll know, and you'll see me again." He was silent a moment, then slipped off into the wind without another word, leaving the Assassin alone on the plains.

  Malok's salvage team was late. He was beginning to wonder if something unusual had held them up. Perhaps it was good he hadn't accompanied them back through the Maw.

  He'd needed to convene with the generals and other commanders to seek new orders from the Doom, and reformulate the master plan. As he had hoped, the siege of the City had been moved up on the timetables, he hadn't even needed to suggest it. The moment the Nulian officers had become aware of an extremely talented battlemage fighting for Anek, their worries had mounted. If indeed there were more like him, even ancient cannons and firearms wouldn't save the plans for the siege. There would have to be significant revisions to the strategy.

  Of course, no single wizard, or even a group of mages could stem
the flood of angry, armed Nulians, so one way or another, that great old City would fall. It was just a matter of when.

  Each new summer morning was hotter than the last, and all the troops groaned at their chores and tasks like spoiled schoolchildren. The three inhuman races snapped at each other incessantly, ogres put off by the stench of hot, dirty beastmen. Beastmen put off by the neurotic skittishness of the gremlins. The only ones not complaining were the humans, for their tongues had been cut out.

  Malok had just finished berating a squad of wolfmen for not bothering to make use of the latrines. He turned away in disgust and trudged back toward the command tent, watching for other breaches of protocol.

  He had only taken a few steps when a gremlin shaman came trotting up, looking pleased about something.

  “Report, shaman,” Malok said.

  “Yes, Commander,” the thing rasped. These creatures could never keep still, and it aggravated Malok. Every time the shaman fidgeted, the jingles on its gnarled wooden staff shook. “The additional dragons have been collared successfully - they will do our bidding. We only lost three squads to their fangs and fire!” It said this as if it were a worthy accomplishment. The dragons were exceedingly fierce things, so Malok supposed it was remarkable.

  “Excellent work, shaman,” Malok said. The gremlin beamed. “Your detachment will escort the captured dragons to the main encampment, then return here, understood?”

  “Yes, Commander,” the gremlin shaman bowed, then trotted off back the way it had come.

  Malok was about to continue on his way when he was stopped again. His human aide was jogging up to him with a note in his hand. Malok read it and growled.

  The note was a summons to the command tent, where he was already going. An emissary from the Doom was awaiting him there. Malok sighed. Hadn’t he answered enough questions about that battlemage?

  Malok entered the huge hide tent. Roughshod tables and chairs had been left at odd angles and topped with clutter. The all-important maps of Enkann were stained with ale, obscuring parts of the war campaign’s details. He found the Doom’s emissary alone. No introduction was needed to know that this wasn’t a normal emissary.

  The creature was lanky and wiry of build, skin so dark it was hard to make out details like the cut of its muscles or the features of its perpetually twisted face. This was a creature of relentless anger - it had to be the Assassin itself. Malok knelt before it.

  The Assassin made a sound like it was spitting and spoke in its grating voice, “Stand up, fool. Time is precious. Tell me about the wizard.”

  Malok recapped his battle for the dozenth time - the man’s imperviousness to blades and ranged weapons, his enhanced speed, his lack of proper martial training. Yet again Malok wondered how the man’s body had survived the dragon. It was maddening.

  “I sought to kill him last night,” the Assassin said, “but I was restrained.” Fury prowled among its words, and the air rippled with heat where it touched deep black skin. “He is following you into these lands.”

  That was surprising. Malok had assumed the wizard was under the employ of Anek. So how had the Assassin known about him before hearing Malok’s report? He didn’t ask the question aloud, for fear of violence. This creature was not known for its patience.

  Malok asked the right question instead. “What are we to do about him? What are the orders from the Doom?”

  “You will accompany me to the Doom,” the Assassin said. “You will tell our master what you have told me. He may be able to glean further information when he examines your body and armor, since you have had contact with the wizard.”

  Malok did not betray his surprise, but his mind’s eye went wide. Rarely was anyone invited to the Doom for positive reasons.

  “I strove my hardest against the man,” the ogre said. “Am I to be punished for my failure?”

  The shadow creature cackled. “Not this time, no. You will return to this war, and see it finished. But first, we present you to the master.” It waved him away dismissively. “Go, make yourself ready. There will be no food or water for you on the way, so bring whatever your mortal body requires.”

  Malok saluted and exited the tent. He would be prepared to leave in minutes, for he was always packed and ready in times like these.

  The ogre commander had spent years in close proximity with sweating, stinking soldiers of every race. At times, those beastmen could nearly burn one’s nose hairs into ash. But he had never been more uncomfortable than when the Assassin put its hand on his shoulder. He’d expected it to be hot, but it was cold, clammy. He nearly vomited as the Assassin launched the two of them into something more than flight, without any warning.

  This was the way a bird’s call travelled through the air, earth and sky whirling by in a blur of color. There was no rush of air to be felt, and no sound of the wind screaming by his big ears, just the press of artificial gravity as the force of the Assassin’s unnatural movement pulled Malok’s innards down into his feet.

  By watching the colors of the land beneath them, the ogre could just barely tell where they were as they travelled. They swiftly left the lowlands where his army was encamped, and skirted the edge of a vast lake. They crossed a peninsula of barren desert that reached up into the grasslands south of the Katal forest. The Red River was but a flash of blackish blue, and the concrete flats of the Nulian decapolis no more than a blur. The Sea of Night, Yamlayla, was flat and still as they came upon it, a dark pane of glass over fathomless depths. In mere moments, they would be at the Doom, in the ruined lands across the sea.

  Suddenly Malok felt a tug on his body. The Assassin must have felt it too, for he turned his head mid-flight to see what the ogre was doing. Before either of them could react, Malok was ripped from the shadow creature’s grasp and pulled down toward the sea, the world around him disappearing in static distortion.

  The ogre commander blinked and found himself inside a small pyramidal enclosure. Its floor and sloping sides would have been translucent but for an luminous purple mist that crawled within them. The place had none of the refinement of a true pyramid, walls not made of stacks of blocks, but rough-hewn as if from a single huge shard. In one corner there was a pool of dark water Malok could not see into - the only point of egress.

  The structure hummed lowly with the power in its walls, emanating a peace that Malok had never experienced before - a sense of confident old age, the surety of timelessness. What was going on?

  “You wonder why you are here,” came a deep, flat voice. Malok spun to find its source, but the voice was all around.

  “That shadowling comes near, so I will be swift,” said the voice. “I am the shard of Command, whom many have sought out, only to find death.”

  Malok’s momentary peace was replaced with cold fear. Was this one of the fallen Crystals? The shard spoke true, then, for among the Nulians the legends of the Crystals had spread for generations. Any adventurer worth his salt had at least considered seeking one out to obtain its power. Most only considered, for few ever returned from such a quest.

  “Spirit,” Malok bowed his head in reverence. “Shall I kneel?”

  “I care not,” said the shard. “Your reverence means naught to me. Only your sense of honor. I have been waiting for you to travel so near.”

  The ogre commander couldn’t help but to keep looking for the voice’s source. He paced about as the shard spoke, searching out the details of the place. There was no indication it was anything but a prismatic shell - no mortal lived here.

  “What do you wish of me, spirit?” Malok asked.

  “I wish nothing,” the shard’s voice dipped lower. “You will take my power, that it may cease to live only as myth.” The shard sounded vaguely wistful as it said, “This world was once full of such wonder.”

  A wave of images crashed upon the shores of Malok’s mind. The Nulian coast, but virgin, pristine, pale sands glistening under the lavender moon. High tide coming in, waters not black but clear, maybe even luminescen
t. Huge fish swam in vast schools among coral reefs of many colors. Malok’s stomach rumbled with hunger. The waves of this sea of light bore him to the rocky shores of what were now cracked and wasted lands. In the vision the earth here was green and wet. Thousands of white bovine wandered in herds among the lush hills, from the sea of light, to another in the east whose name he did not know. Men ranged to and fro in the wildlands, tending to dales and forests and fields with magic of all kinds.

  A shadow came upon the land, spindly fingers of darkness warbling as they crept across the hills. A gigantic structure like a hand was descending from the sky, or was it crashing? Fierce jets of flame spouted from its fingertips and elsewhere, as if it were struggling to regain altitude. Gravity won the battle, and the massive fortress slammed into the earth, extinguishing the jets of flame as its fingertips crumpled. A rippling grey mass suspended in its palm touched the ground and scorched it instantly. This corruption swiftly spread, man and beast fleeing before it. The land grew dark, and the sea lost its light.

  Malok’s mind cleared, the vision left him reeling.

  “Such memories have been my only company,” said the shard.

  Suspicious but intrigued, Malok asked, “Spirit, what is your power?”

  “I have told you what I am!” the voice’s palpability shook his guts. “Command! In your mortal societies, some who seek honor receive authority, but many receive it who are undeserving. They stumble into it through birth or acquaintance or favoritism. Not so with you, today. I give you my authority to command, and I tell you truly, whatever hears or feels your will shall be compelled to obey.”

  The ogre commander had enjoyed his career of leadership thus far, but still he was used to taking orders from those above him. Those who lent out their authority always sought some reciprocal service.

  “But what am I to do with it?” he asked. “Do you know who my master is? What he does to those who threaten him?” Malok might be executed for this contact with another spiritual power...