Corizen Rising

by Heidi J. Leavitt

  A moment had passed and Burke had remained silent. Obviously he did not feel he needed to confess to anything.

  “So be it,” declared the Oman. He pointed at Burke’s sister. “Shelle Alain, traitor to the Brotherhood, do you have any final words?”

  Shelle was also silent for a moment. Tiran wondered if her defiance had ebbed away in the face of the malevolent crowd. Then before the Oman could move on, Shelle spoke up. “I used to think you were a prophet,” she said loudly so that the audience could hear her. “I used to believe, but you’re nothing but an imposter!” she accused. Hissing and cries of outrage greeted her statement.

  “May Veshti withhold mercy from your rebellious soul,” replied the Oman coldly. He turned to Tiran’s mother who had her manacles pressed to her forehead by now.

  “Andrea Morten, formerly known as Sirra Bruche, agent of the nefarious Union and enemy to Veshti. Set an example of humility by confessing your crimes one last time,” he ordered.

  Tiran watched her mother fearfully. Was she going to lie for the Oman again? However, her mother didn’t say anything. The seconds stretched out to a minute and still her mother did not speak. It must be costing her tremendous effort to directly disobey the Oman. Tiran risked a glance backward at him; he was frowning down at her mother’s stiff form. Finally, he waved his arm.

  “Your punishment is just then,” he declared shortly. Then, Tiran could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. She flinched and waited for him to condemn her.

  “Tiran Bruche, also known as Tiran Morten. Enemy of Veshti and corrupter of faithful Brethren, speak your final words before you meet your Creator.”

  Corrupter of faithful Brethren? Did he mean Zaq? What had he done with Zaq?

  “I am not an enemy of Veshti!” Tiran cried out against him. “I’ve never corrupted anyone!”

  The crowd jeered at her but she looked to her right at Sister Marna who smiled encouragingly at her. Her heart was pounding. Wasn’t there some way she could get out of here? She could try to run for it but she was surrounded by devoted, mindless slaves of the Oman.

  “Maybe Veshti will have mercy on one so young, but I fear with such a hard heart it may not be so,” said the Oman sorrowfully. Tiran stared unseeing into the crowd, her eyes filled with tears. At least she would be strong like her mother. She wouldn’t plead with this heartless monster.

  “Ahna Foedor, also known as Sister Marna of the Women of the Tender Heart. You are the worst blasphemer of all—you pretend to serve Veshti yet defile Him by your actions. Have you any last words?” demanded the Oman fiercely.

  “Veshti commands that we love and serve others around us,” Sister Marna stated loudly and clearly. Her voice rang through the stage and even some of the audience quieted momentarily. “Think about what you are doing!” she cried to the faceless numbers before them. “Veshti does not want us to frighten or terrorize or kill our neighbors and our friends and our families! Yet this man is asking you to do all this and more. Your Oman is no prophet; he is a vile servant of the Great Enemy, and Veshti will not allow his oppression to continue forever!”

  “Enough!” bellowed the Oman. The crowd roared, angered by Sister Marna’s words.

  “You can choose good instead of evil!” Sister Marna continued, shouting to be heard over the crowd. “You do not have to follow this false prophet! Listen to your heart; it will tell you that what I say is the truth!”

  The crowd went crazy, most of them spitting at Sister Marna’s plea or screaming insults at her. However, Tiran noticed a face here and there that was thoughtful, obviously taken aback by Sister Marna’s words.

  “Silence her!” demanded the Oman, his calm veneer cracking. He pointed his shaking finger at her. “I refuse to listen to any more of her lies, her hypocrisy!” The guard behind Sister Marna pulled a scarf from his robes and tied it tightly over her mouth, ending her attempts at addressing the angry members of the audience.

  “The time has come,” the Oman declared, inhaling deeply and regaining his composure. “Put them into position.”

  34. The Judgment

  The guard behind Tiran prodded her back. She took a step toward the stockade but couldn’t manage to get any closer. He pressed heavily onto her back, forcing her to her knees, and then clumsily held her head down into place while he lowered the heavy wood beam on top of her neck. Tiran found herself on all fours, her head immobilized by the stockade. The tears were flowing quickly now, and terror threatened to overwhelm her. She tried to twist to see her mother, but her head couldn’t move. Then the young guard shifted to her side. She felt the faint whoosh of air as he raised his sword and squeezed her eyes shut. Silently she offered a plea to Veshti, just as Sister Marna had taught her months ago. Please don’t let me die, she thought desperately. Please save us!

  “Please don’t kill me,” she whispered aloud. There was a stifled choking sound and with a thud, her guard’s sword dropped to the ground.

  “What is the matter?” challenged the Oman incredulously. “Raise your sword, my son. On my direction the blade must fall!”

  “I can’t,” muttered her guard, stepping away. “I can’t do it.”

  “Am I surrounded by the unfaithful?” spluttered the Oman. “Step forward now, or I will . . .”

  A deep rumbling noise rolled toward them. It sounded like a shuttle rushing toward the building, and then suddenly the entire building was shaking.

  “Earthquake! Earthquake!” someone shrieked. Tiran’s teeth rattled in her head and her ears echoed with screaming and crashing. Her body jerked up into the air as the stage buckled. Something slammed into her legs and she was falling, choking on dust, unable to breathe. The thunder and shaking slowly trailed off and Tiran tried to get oriented again. She was covered in bits of wood. The wooden harness that had held her head down had cracked, and she reached up and awkwardly shoved it off her neck with her bound hands. All around her, hysterical screaming and sobbing echoed through the theater. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air, and she could hear the crackling of flames. Scrambling to her feet she saw that her half of the stage had collapsed. The heavy columns had tumbled, and the fire was spreading rapidly into the wooden splinters of the stage.

  “Here,” coughed a voice behind her. She spun to see the young guard crawling toward her. He pulled something from his robes. “It’s a manacle key,” he spluttered, handing it out to her. “Unlock yourself and get out, quickly.”

  Tiran snatched the key and shakily unlocked the iron fetters. “Thanks,” she wheezed, the smoke making it hard to breathe. He nodded and stood. “Get out quickly,” he urged again and then plunged off the stage into the mass of people surging for the doors.

  Tiran whirled, trying to find her mother in the middle of the wreckage of the stage. Through the haze she caught a glimpse of a ghostly hand poking through a pile of rubble. She rushed to the pile and started digging frantically. “Mom!” she called frantically. “Mom, can you hear me?” She uncovered her mother’s arm, then her head. Her mother’s eyes were closed and a gash on her head was bleeding freely. For a moment Tiran’s head swam.

  “Mom!” she called urgently, clearing away the rest of the debris.

  A hand clamped down on her shoulder. She whipped around to see Sister Marna standing unscathed except for a long gash across her cheek. The scarf was still knotted around her mouth. Tiran quickly tugged it down until it hung around her neck. “Unlock my hands,” Sister Marna directed calmly. Tiran fumbled for the key and managed to click open the manacles.

  “Can you rouse her?” Sister Marna asked, crouching next to Tiran’s mother. “We have to get out of here—the fire is spreading quickly.”

  “No,” fretted Tiran, glancing at the flames licking their way up the curtained panels at the back of the stage. She heard a cry to her left and remembered Burke and Shelle.

  “I’ll take your mother; go find the ot
hers,” ordered Sister Marna. Leaving her to drag her mother away from the stage, Tiran skirted a large pile of what looked like the ceiling and climbed up a metal girder onto the part of the stage that was still standing. She stopped in shock as she reached the top. One of the columns had come down right onto the Oman. She could see just enough to be sure he had probably been crushed instantly. For a moment she gagged as the bile rose in her throat. Then she edged quickly around the column with her eyes averted. She found Shelle and Burke still stuck in the stockades. Rushing to Shelle first she shoved the wooden bar off her head and then picked open the manacles. Without stopping to check on the moaning Shelle she moved to Burke, freeing him as well.

  Burke staggered to his feet. His leg was sliced open, and he could barely manage to walk. Shelle appeared at their side and without a word, slung her brother’s arm around her shoulder and started to ease him back toward the door. Just then a flaming beam tumbled from the already crumbling roof in front of them.

  “Looks like our way is blocked,” grunted Shelle. “Guess we’ll follow the crowd.” She heaved her brother toward the edge of the stage, Tiran leading the way.

  “See any way out of here?” asked Shelle. Tiran scanned the quickly emptying theater. There seemed to be two exits in the back, but they were so packed with bodies it might be impossible to get out. Finally she spotted Sister Marna, still dragging her mother toward a door at the bottom level of the seating.

  “There,” Tiran pointed. She jumped down off the stage and helped Shelle ease Burke down. As quickly as Burke could hobble, they made their way toward the door where Sister Marna was headed. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Tiran’s eyes were watering so badly she could hardly see, and every so often coughs wracked her body so hard she couldn’t draw a breath. When she reached Sister Marna she grabbed her mother’s legs to help lug her unconscious body from the room. Once all five of them had made it into the hallway Sister Marna turned to the others.

  “Does anybody know the way out of here?” she asked, her voice tight.

  “Let’s just head down the hallway, anywhere’s got to be better than right next to the inferno,” suggested Burke wincing.

  “That way,” suggested Shelle pointing to the left. “The smoke seems less in that direction.” They trudged down the hallway for another five minutes, passing several doors on the right. At each door, Shelle eagerly pushed it open, only to find yet another dressing room or storage room. There didn’t seem to be any way out of this place at all. Tiran tried not to think about it. Instead, she concentrated on just moving her mother’s inert form down the hallway and farther from the fire. She’ll be fine, she told herself. We’ll get out of here and everything will be all right.

  It seemed hours later when Tiran and Shelle finally pushed their way through a partially blocked doorway into the sunlight. In reality it had only taken probably five minutes. Once an aftershock had forced them to stop, and it sent more debris raining from the ceiling. Fortunately the backstage area of the theater seemed to be made of stone, and there was little smoke from the fire on the stage. At last they emerged into an empty lot that bordered the back of the theater. Tiran got her first glimpse of the town as they rounded the corner of the huge theater building.

  “Where are we?” she gasped.

  It looked like it had once been a very upscale town. Almost all of the buildings were made of some kind of stone that sparkled in the sun. There were large mansions five and six stories tall, still enclosed by towering walls.

  “This is the town of Mazor,” observed Shelle with a shudder. “Before the Revolution it was called the Playground of the Nobles. Awful things happened here . . .” her voice trailed off. “Evil things. When the Royals and Nobles who survived the Revolution left for Nubia it was abandoned. Nobody came here because of its past, so the Brotherhood made a base of sorts here.”

  Tiran stared around her, chills sneaking down her spine. Vines crept over the walls, and weeds poked through cracks in the pavement. Damage from the earthquake could be seen as well. Some of the walls had crumbled completely, and several of the tall mansions had partially collapsed. In some places though, Tiran couldn’t be sure if the damage was from the earthquake or just the passage of time. For instance, she couldn’t see a single window that hadn’t been broken, but she wasn’t sure if that was from the earthquake or before.

  Even though the street appeared to be deserted, Tiran could hear shouting and crying in the distance. Mazor wasn’t deserted at the moment, anyway.

  “We need to keep moving,” Sister Marna urged. Tiran once again helped lift her mother’s body. They trudged forward a few paces, Tiran’s arms aching from the strain. They hadn’t even made it out to the street when Burke groaned and stopped. “I can’t go any farther,” he grunted. “I’m getting faint. If we don’t get this bleeding stopped I’m going to die.” Tiran looked at his tattered leg and then at Shelle, whose lips were white. Her own stomach lurched again. She couldn’t even begin to think what should be done for Burke’s leg. Then Sister Marna gently lowered Tiran’s mother to the ground and pulled off the scarf still tied around her neck. Snatching a small wooden stake from the ground, she used the scarf and the stick to fashion a tourniquet for Burke’s leg.

  “I think someone is going to have to go for help. Burke can’t walk, and Madam Morten is still unconscious,” Sister Marna directed.

  “I’ll go,” Tiran volunteered, trying to sound brave. The thought terrified her but she just couldn’t stand here. “But I don’t know where to go . . .” she trailed off.

  “I’ll go with you,” Shelle decided. “The Sister can stay here and watch over the others.”

  “May Veshti protect you. And hurry!” urged Sister Marna. Shelle raced down the lot to the street and Tiran followed her blindly. Another miracle, that’s all it would take. They had been granted one reprieve; they just needed one more.

  “Come on,” directed Shelle, starting down the street at a brisk pace. “This town is probably deserted of anyone but the Brotherhood right now, but we need to find someone with access to a terminal, or if we’re lucky, there’s a doctor in this crowd.” Tiran followed her until they reached the street corner. Rounding the corner she halted abruptly. They had run right into a large mass of black-robed people milling in a large open square. Some were injured and some seemed to be dazed. Others were nearly hysterical while a few hardy people were capably tending to those who were hurt.

  To the left, Tiran could see a couple of open doors with smoke pouring out. Immediately she understood. This was the front side of the burning theater where the crowd had been pushing to get to.

  Tiran clutched at Shelle, trying to pull her back behind the corner.

  “Shelle!” she whispered urgently. “I think we should go back. What if someone recognizes us?”

  “There is no one living in this town, Tiran. We are not going to find a terminal anywhere else,” reminded Shelle.

  “Still, there has to be another way to do this,” protested Tiran fearfully. “They’ll kill us!”

  Shelle shook her head. “Didn’t you see? The Oman’s dead. Everyone’s going to be back to normal. Someone in this group will be able to help us.”

  But Tiran’s feeling of dread only increased. Some instinct warned her away from this group of people who had been so eager for her death only a short while earlier. Shelle moved forward into the crowd, but Tiran hung back at a distance watching warily. A woman kneeling not too far from her was rocking back and forth. “He’s dead!” she wailed, keening piteously. “Our prophet is dead!” A man a bit farther off was shaking his fist at the sky. “How could you do this to us, Veshti? Were we not worthy enough of his presence?”

  All around, Tiran listened in horror to the expressions of grief and fury at the loss of the Oman. It didn’t sound at all like those implants had quit working just because the Oman had died.

  “There she
is! One of the traitors!” an angry voice shrieked. “She’s the one who brought this on us! Her and the other traitors! Veshti took away our prophet because we let them live!” A mob of people suddenly converged toward a spot not fifty feet from Tiran, in the direction that Shelle had pushed.

  Tiran started forward in horror. Were they yelling about Shelle? She couldn’t see over the horde of bodies. Turning back to the building, she spotted several fallen beams and started to climb.

  She heard Shelle’s loud voice above the crowd. “I am one of you! I just need some help, that’s all!” she cried.

  “You are a traitor!” yelled some unknown harasser. “Death to the traitor! Death! Death!” The chant was taken up by the crowd.

  Death! Death!

  Tiran reached the high point of her precarious position on the fallen support beams and turned to the roiling throng of humanity. She couldn’t see Shelle at all among the flailing arms and flying rocks. Her stomach lurched. A wave of faintness swept over her and she nearly lost her balance.

  Clinging to one of the beams, she tried to breathe deeply. She had to be calm. The most important thing was to get away before someone saw her. She had to find help from someone. Far too late to help Shelle, but she could still help her mother and Sister Marna and Burke. Opening her eyes and drawing a deep breath, she slowly and quietly made her way back down to the ground.

  “Look!” screeched a voice. “There’s another one!” Tiran didn’t waste time looking back. Instead, she sprinted down the street. She heard cries behind her as some of the crowd gave chase. Tiran ran as she never had before. Her chest felt like it might explode and a stitch was forming in her side, but still they were gaining on her. She could hear the footsteps pounding right behind. A sudden flash blinded her and she tripped and slammed onto the ground, her hands just barely breaking her fall. Instinctively she curled into a ball, protected her head with her arms and waited for the blows to come.