by Chad R. Odom
Celeste shoved her feet hard into the ground and drove backward, bringing the back of her head into Lathena’s face. They both tumbled to the ground where Bartlett kicked Celeste viciously in the ribs. She rolled away, now pinning herself in the corner. She ached all over, Lathena and Bartlett were both on their feet, but she was prepared to kill both of them if she had to.
“Celeste!” Sicari called her name and all eyes turned to him. He held Asher firmly under his arm. “Please, Celeste. Don’t make this any worse.”
Celeste looked at him, then at Asher. “Hold quiet, baby,” she reassured him then looked at Lathena. “He’s not what he seems.”
Lathena glanced at Bartlett then at the Archide. Sicari’s gaze shifted to the Arkons. Sensing the potential change in fortunes, he released Asher who ran to Celeste.
“Restrain her,” he ordered them. Bartlett fastened Celeste’s hands behind her back and sat her on the bed while Lathena merely took Asher by the hand and gently led him to the other side of the room.
Sicari sat next to Celeste. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m not your enemy.”
Celeste glared at him, worked up a mouthful of saliva and blood and spit it in his face. “Now you look like Corvus,” noting the scratches from her fingers that crossed over his eye.
Sicari wiped the spit from his face, careful to avoid his swollen, still bleeding nose. “Lathena, Bartlett. Get her bag. Take them where I told you to and get back here. Corvus will need your help.” He locked eyes with her again. “I’m not your enemy. Damrich is coming, and I need to get you out.”
The Killing Field
Oryan didn’t make it back to the camp when he said he would, and there was no way to get a message to anyone letting them know he was alive. He traveled back to his old Slave Quarter and to the teleportation node beyond it. He needed to get back to Celeste and Asher as quickly as possible. By now, Lathena, Barrett, and Taeger reported back, which meant his tardiness had probably reached Celeste’s ears.
With a heavy sigh, he stuffed his frustration deep into his stomach and keyed the vambrace that would take him far away from here. The now familiar feeling of being scattered around the world returned for an instant but even that could not distract the warrior from his preoccupation. This was how his mind worked. When confronted with a problem, it first analyzed the source of the problem and then worked to correct it. Rarely did this task completely envelop him, but this time, he could think of nothing else.
He opened the door beneath the snow and walked down the stairs. His knees seemed to give way with each step. He half-expected to be met by Sicari and Corvus, both angry with his failure to return the Agryphim. The path bent right and left, it climbed slightly up, and then sharply back down.
Even as he cleared the trees, he did not look up. He took no notice of the crunch of fallen leaves mingling with the crunch of burnt ones. As the ground changed from the vivid colors of autumn to the charcoal color of scorched earth, his brain still did not acknowledge the contrast. His senses were sending warning signals to his brain, but his heart was refusing to process their implication.
He felt another breeze pass his face, stronger than normal and cold. Extremely cold. It pierced him to his bones and brought with it flecks of snow.
He looked up, shielding his eyes from the frigid water that had so suddenly began pelting him. The canopy of the camp, which sustained the conditions within, was shattered open. A gaping hole was there, exposing wires and framework around the edges. The artificial sunlight shone beyond the break, but the grey and white sky of the real world ominously crept into the utopia.
He turned his attention to the path that led to Sicari’s home. Where it had once been lush and green, it was now the color of coal. Embers glowed red and orange, partially hidden by the ruin that lay piled on top, and smoke rose in thin clouds everywhere. Oryan spun in circles, realizing that he had come at least thirty feet into the clearing without noticing the devastation.
He half-walked/half-ran in the direction of Sicari’s home. Human body parts lay strewn about the parched land, and the garden was a burnt mound within the broken fence. The flames had been so intense, they had split some of the stone posts.
Oryan’s eyes darted frantically looking for some clue as to the identities of the fallen. In the back of his mind grew the unrelenting horror that, even if he could identify one of them, he might not want to. What if it was Sicari or Corvus? What if it was…? He stopped thinking so morbidly and forced himself to keep searching.
Sicari’s home was rubble. A partial wall stood amidst the remains. His eyes picked out every detail, the remnants of various pieces of furniture, fixtures, pillars and the like, even though the blaze had almost completely erased them from existence. Amongst the smoldering carcass of Sicari’s home was the omnipresence of mutilated human remains.
He bolted through the house to the garage, which was now a crater in the earth. The rafters which supported the underground structure had been used as a makeshift gallows where dozens of people hung from nooses made from electrical wire.
Oryan mindlessly ventured into the chaos. His knees could barely hold him. As he slid down through the dirt and rubble, gravity did most of the work. His feet touched the shattered remains of the platform to the tunnels that led to the camp itself. It was a lifeless walk, a walk of one who only breathes because his body won’t stop doing so, toward the rows of hanging bodies. He searched their red bloated faces. So far, none of them were his family.
He looked beyond the hanging bodies to the three great passageways, which stood cluttered, but still passable. He didn’t want to see what had become of the camp, but he had to go. If there was even a slight chance that his family was alive, it was worth the risk. He swallowed hard, and, thinking of his beloved son and wife, plunged into the darkness.
***
The first tunnel had been blocked by one of the provision transports, derailed and filled with people who had tried to flee the carnage. They were all dead. What had begun as a walk, quickly became a sprint.
The lights flickered on and off in the second tunnel; sometimes they alerted him to debris and ruin ahead and other times he found himself sprawled out on the floor due to an unforeseen obstacle. He simply cursed his misfortune and then barreled onward.
It seemed like hours before he felt the tunnel gradually rise and natural light stream in from the opening that was not far off. His body was burning. As he exited the tunnel he slowed, and his brain finally acknowledged the state of his legs. They were bruised and cut from tripping over the invisible rubble in the tunnel to say nothing of the near fatigue they felt from having traveled so far so fast. His lungs burned from inhaling so much of the acrid fumes.
The garage tunnel exit began to choke what little hope remained. Much like Sicari’s home, the ground in all direction was charred and black. The only difference was that Oryan could see no signs of human remains.
An ember of hope blazed into a raging fire in his heart. In a blind panic, he sprinted again toward the entrance of the camp. Maybe he was not too late. Maybe the Arkons in the camp had done their part. Maybe there was still time! Maybe, just maybe, Celeste and Asher were still alive.
He covered the distance almost as quickly as he could have riding in the transport. As he rounded the last bend, he stopped dead in his tracks. A sob rose in his throat, choking the air he was trying in vain to breath. Tears of rage and pain involuntarily filled his eyes and mingled with the sweat on his face.
He remembered the sounds of life that used to fill the air. There were children playing and adults conversing pleasantly one with another. It was the closest thing to utopia on this planet.
In all his time in the military, he had never seen a scene so grisly. The camp itself lay in pieces. Bullet casings, edged weapons of various kinds, shreds of clothing, and many other signs of a battle lay among the shards of permatemp.
The complete destruction of the camp would have reminded the Archides just
how potent a threat Damrich really was, but the architect of chaos hadn’t stopped there. How could he? Simply bringing their world to the ground could never be enough for him. The obelisk still stood, as did the fountains, in flawless condition.
Surrounding the fountains, in concentric circles, were rows of crudely fashioned wooden pikes about the width of a man’s wrist. They rose some ten feet in the air, the tips sharpened but the outside still course and rough. Blood and human excrement soaked the bottom portion and pooled at the base of each. Thousands of people with pikes forced into their rectum, through their body and protruding from their gaping mouths. Some were missing hands and feet. Some bore the wounds of struggle.
Oryan stumbled through the carnage searching the faces of the murdered. This was real. From the looks of the bodies, they had been dead for at least a day, but they might have remained alive for many hours before death finally took them. Row by row, face by distorted face, Oryan searched for the final reality he did not want to accept. The foul stench of death and decay permeated his nostrils forcing him to cover his face with his hand.
“Oryan?” said a feeble voice near the obelisk. From between two of the fountains, Oryan saw a pair of boots. They were gritty, ripped, and blood-stained, but there were slowly shifting through the loose gravel. The bodies of dozens of swarthy looking men lay strewn about the obelisk, killed with the lethal precision of a man with thousands of years of study. Whichever Archide lay there, he fought them and showed them what it was to defend your home.
“Oryan, is that you?” the voice asked again. It was Corvus, or rather what remained of him. His clothing was shredded as was most of his flesh. Two deep cuts extended from his brow, through each eye and down to his chin. The skin barely clung to the skull. One hand had been relieved of two of its fingers and the other gripped something, which he was holding on his belly.
Oryan knelt by Corvus, feeling through his pockets for the healing salve that had worked so many miracles before. His eyes surveyed the damage and while he did not give up trying, he knew Corvus had only minutes left.
“It’s no use,” Corvus muttered as his head slumped into his chest.
“What happened?”
Corvus’s face contorted through the mask of blood as the faint sound of sobbing slipped from his lips. “I’m so sorry…so sorry.”
Oryan remembered the vision of Armay so long ago. He remembered in painful detail uttering those same words at the feet of the father he’d loved and lost. The same remorse resonated from Corvus’s soul. “It was him. I should have known. It was….It was….”
Oryan nodded. “It was Damrich.”
Corvus coughed violently sending spittle and blood from his mouth. His labored breathing became more sporadic and jagged. His head fell from side to side in an attempt to refute Oryan’s conclusion. “No!” he sputtered. “No. Not him.”
Oryan’s mind was feverishly trying to decipher what he was being told. Corvus fell still and for a moment, Oryan wasn’t even sure he was still breathing. He placed his hand gently on Corvus’s shoulder but still the man did not move.
“Corvus?” He shook him ever so softly. “Corvus?”
Corvus’s chest rose slowly as his head rolled to one side in acknowledgement. “Corvus, who did this?”
Oryan watched his lips move and heard a hoarse whisper pass his cracked lips. He leaned in closer but as he heard and understood the name Corvus was speaking, he found himself seated on the ground before his dying friend in disbelief.
He knew what Oryan wanted to know before he had to ask. “He took them. He took Celeste and…” There was another cough. Oryan noticed that fresh blood bubbled to the surface from one of the cuts on Corvus’s chest. Precious oxygen was being lost. Oryan pressed his hand firmly against the wound. Despite his agony, Corvus had to live a while longer.
“He took them,” Oryan continued. “He took them where?”
“Away from here.” Corvus wheezed and winced. He strained to speak again. “So thirsty…”
Suddenly, his own concerns faded again. Corvus was in pain beyond words and Oryan did not even have water to alleviate the anguish.
“I know. I know. What can I do?”
Corvus’s hand rolled over and his fingers opened. In his palm was a small device with a button on top and a trigger on the front. “This will…incinerate the camp.” There was a pause while Corvus tried to gather his next words. “Only safe place….outside camp….or….at the obel…”
“Right here. Next to the obelisk,” Oryan understood.
“Oryan,” Corvus gasped. He feebly placed the trigger in Oryan’s lap. There was a button on top and a trigger on the side. A two-step detonator like many Oryan had seen before.
Corvus lurched and grasped the back of Oryan’s neck, drawing him closer to his face.
“They’re still here!”
The hairs on the back of Oryan’s neck stood on end. He stood to full height, the feeling of being watched crept up his spine. Corvus slumped back against the obelisk, his last few breaths of life ebbing away. Death, it seemed, could not find him fast enough.
Oryan looked in all directions, noticing for the first time that the rows of pikes had been placed in nearly perfect rows. Before, each path had been an avenue of human suffering but now he saw them as clear paths by which either someone could escape or someone could come from. At the top of the pike closest to him, through the decay, Oryan recognized the victim. Eldar.
“Come on, you bastard!” he shouted to assailants he couldn’t yet see.
A single cry echoed across the camp followed by a thousand more. In minutes, the mountains were swarming with gruesome men, wearing black with faces painted to match. They crawled like ants from the many hidden passages in the rocks. Their feet shook the ground beneath Oryan as they surrounded him and filled the rim of the valley. They stood like ravenous wolves between the pikes.
The army around him chanted, shouted, and spat at him. Then, an unseen command quieted the fiends. There was an eerie silence broken by another command shouted in some vile tongue. The villains shouldered or discarded their firearms and readied a myriad of jagged weapons. This was no trained military force, but a blood-thirsty band of desperate, duped into a common cause. They were the kind of men needed to handle a slaughter such as this.
Another shout was heard. It was long and loud, but it was drowned out as thousands of similar cries shook the earth. In perfect chaos, their putrid ranks charged the shimmering white obelisk. Tens of thousands of feet clamored for their one last victim.
Oryan remained still. Even as the hordes closed in, he did not move. In his right hand he gripped his sword and in his left, his fingers traced the outline of the trigger Corvus had given him. The mob grew closer; Oryan tightened his grip. He began to distinguish each distorted face; his thumb pressed down hard on the button. His breathing was rapid, his heart pounding. He had never used this weapon before. It might not activate immediately, it may kill him despite Corvus’s safe zone, or it may not work at all. If it didn’t, he had to be ready to kill as many of them as he could before they overwhelmed him. When he could see the spit spewing from between their yellow, rotten teeth, he screamed and pressed the trigger.
There was a deafening sound, as if the whole valley were in a vacuum and all the air was being drawn into the center. Oryan dropped the trigger and his sword, falling to his knees and covering his ears. A cloud of dust rose in the air so thick it blocked all visibility. Then there was a shudder in the earth and the ground rippled like it was unrolling beneath his feet.
***
From high above, Lykas watched. He’d known Oryan was coming He had been notified the moment Oryan arrived. Still, he kept his goons silent and in hiding. He watched Oryan enter the field of dead humans displayed like ornaments. He watched him wander the rows and finally find Corvus.
Corvus was an old vendetta paid to him by his former master. Damrich had been slow, methodical, and thorough. The fight began as an epic thing
but time and wounds wore on the Archide, eventually leading to his defeat. Damrich carved through his eyes, shattered his feet, and left him to die slowly, with only the ability to listen to the terrible fate of the people of the camp. It was a cruel torture, but one Damrich was very fond of.
Lykas had not wanted such a violent display. He knew his master would let no one live, but he was hoping for a swift end. He should have known better. But, it was all over now. Mercifully or not, they were all dead. His part of the arrangement was done. Without Damrich knowing, he had smuggled Celeste, Asher and even the wolf out, before the carnage came. He wanted leverage. He revealed many things to Damrich while in his service, but never Armay and certainly never a whisper of the name Oryan. Even now, he felt Oryan might be the last frantic weapon that could dethrone Damrich.
Alone, Lykas could not defeat Damrich. Corvus was willing, but once a traitor, always a traitor. Armay would have done the job, but he proved to be a failure. Had Lykas known just how powerfully Armay loved his wife and son, he would have taken them just as he did Celeste and Asher. But Oryan! Oryan was a killer. He could be a lethal instrument, capable of dispatching life at his whim. He had a code, but that code was defined by who it was he protected. While he served Navarro, he protected only himself. But now, Lykas had the only thing he cared about more than himself. Lykas had leverage.
Oryan was not yet tested against a truly formidable opponent. His natural abilities coupled with the right combination of new weapons and new training had made him a handful for Corvus, and that was a rare thing. Even still, that was only hypothetical. Corvus was never fighting Oryan for his life. Lykas could only wait to see if his hope was premature.
He had given the mercenaries strict instructions. Take this one alive. That’s why they didn’t shoot Oryan outright. They had been warned that to take this man’s life was to lose their own. He let the slaughter of the camp go unhindered; let them see their slaughter to its climax so that he could press for the life of one man.