by Aaron Hodges
Images flashed through Romaine’s mind, of a woman lying silent in the snow, of a boy’s pale face, of lifeless eyes in the daylight. Blood pounded in his temples and his vision blurred, blinding him to the forest, the trail, until all that was left to him were the bootprints he followed.
A scream cut the air. At first, he barely registered the noise over the pounding of hooves. But it came again—a cry of terror, of a woman alone, unmistakably human.
“Romaine!” His companion’s voices called him back.
He slowed his horse, but only for a moment, to readjust his grip on the axe. Sunlight rippled across the twin blades, then he was surging forward once more, the gelding responding to his urging with a cry of its own. They were still downwind of the Tangata and the horses could smell them now, the unnatural scent of humanity mixed with something else, the madness of the enemy.
Suddenly the trees were falling away and Romaine found himself rushing across an open meadow. The pounding of hooves from behind told him his comrades still followed. For a second he was touched with guilt, that he had led them here so recklessly, but there was no time for second thoughts now. Ahead, two figures swung to face the newcomers. At first glance, they could have been mistaken as humans. Neither were larger than the average man—were smaller even than Romaine, in fact. Their clothes were of rough-spun cotton, faded and torn, but not far removed from that worn by a farmer or a woodsman—in summer. In this frozen forest, a human would have perished from exposure long ago.
But the Tangata did not feel the cold.
Each wore its hair in long, unkept braids—one jet-black, the other straw blond—and the finer features of one revealed it was female. Their scouts often hunted in pairs. While little was known of their hierarchy, they were assumed to be mating couples.
Beyond the two, a woman in heavy winter furs staggered backwards, auburn hair flashing in the sunlight. Relief swept through Romaine—they were not too late.
His attention snapped back to the Tangata as growls came from across the clearing. He shivered as two pairs of slate-grey eyes fixed on him. More than anything, this feature marked the beasts as inhuman. Completely grey, the eyes of the Tangata held no empathy, no compassion, no emotion other than rage—and hatred. They were the eyes of the lost, their humanity washed away by the magic they had stolen from the long-departed Gods.
Watching the creatures now, Romaine’s jaw clenched with a hatred of his own. These creatures had taken everything from him, consumed a decade of his life, stolen his nation. And still they came, still they sought more. The greed that had first driven them to betray the Divine lived still within them; they would not stop until the world was theirs.
Rage swept through Romaine like a wave, banishing fear and thought. Though the Flumeeren scouts had spread out behind him, in that moment there was only Romaine and the Tangata.
With a roar, he charged. Shouts came from behind Romaine as the gelding leapt forward. He trusted his comrades would follow. Howls met his battlecry as the Tangata sprang towards him, crossing half the clearing in a single bound.
Their speed was terrifying to behold, even on the snow-kissed ground. The creatures carried no weapons, but they hardly needed them. Ice slid down Romaine’s spine as the male drew ahead and the slate-grey eyes locked with his. Immediately the beast diverted its path, heading straight for the charging axeman.
A wicked grin split Romaine’s face and he rose in the saddle, bellowing a challenge. Let it think him easy prey; this was not Romaine’s first encounter with the beasts. He raised his axe as the distance closed, waiting for the moment…
Suddenly the Tangata was airborne, a bound of its powerful legs sending it soaring into the air—straight at Romaine. Beneath him, the gelding screamed and then it was rearing up, hooves lashing the air.
Only that saved Romaine. Instead of him, the full strength of the Tangata struck the horse. A sickening crunch followed as the two came together, iron-shod hooves striking flesh. Yet it was not the Tangata that fell. With almost a sigh, Romaine’s mount toppled backwards, body limp.
Cursing, Romaine kicked free of his stirrups and fell sideways, narrowly avoiding being crushed. In one fluid movement, he rolled to his feet, boots crunching on the icy ground, axe still in hand. He had a second to glimpse the now lifeless corpse of the gelding, its head snapped where the creature’s blow had struck—then the male was upon him.
It came as little more than a blur, teeth bared, arms raised to tear him apart. In a second it dissolved the space between them, and again it leapt, a scream shaking the snow from the branches of nearby trees.
This time, though, Romaine was ready. He swept his axe up, the twin points of its butterfly blades rising to meet his assailant. Mid-air, the creature could not adjust its attack, and with a soft crunch, its weight slammed down into the axe, driving the points deep into the creature’s chest.
Triumph swept through Romaine—but a wild fist struck his shoulder. The axe was torn from his grasp as the blow sent him tumbling across the snowy earth. Stars flashed across his vision and he struggled to reclaim his senses, to regain his feet. Desperately he fumbled for the dagger on his belt; the beast could be on him any second. Finally he found the hilt and tore it loose. Swinging around, he gasped for breath, seeking his foe.
But the Tangata had not moved. Romaine’s axe remained embedded in its flesh. Blood seeped from the wound, staining its tunic red. Slowly its head turned, and the grey eyes focused on Romaine. Fury flicked on the beast’s face and it tried to take a step. The effort was too much, even for this creature. Its legs gave way and it tumbled forward.
Romaine flinched as the impact drove his axe deeper into the creature’s chest. It moved no more.
He stood staring at his foe for a moment, but the satisfaction of its defeat was short lived. One more of the creatures was dead, but the death would not fill the emptiness…
A scream came from across the meadow, drawing Romaine’s attention back to reality. His heart palpated as he recalled the second Tangata, then fell into the pit of his stomach as he saw the battle being fought across the clearing.
One of the scouts was already dead, eyes staring lifelessly up at the sky, while the Perfugian recruit, Flagers, lay nearby, hands clasping desperately at the silver cords spilling from his stomach. A moan came from his throat as the intestines slipped through his fingers, and his head swung around, eyes fixing on Romaine. He tried to cry out, but his words emerged as little more than a whisper.
Steeling his heart, Romaine forced his attention back to the battle. He had seen such wounds before—Flagers was already dead. But the lieutenant and the two remaining scouts could still survive. They had managed to keep their horses, though only the lieutenant still held his lance. Another lance lay broken on the ground nearby, while the last had been driven through the thigh of the female Tangata.
Though terribly injured, the beast had managed to snap the lance in half. Its tip still jabbed through her thigh, dripping scarlet blood in the snow, but the other half she now flourished like a club, preventing the three horsemen from getting close enough to finish her.
Romaine staggered to his fallen foe and kicked the Tangata onto its back, then retrieved his axe. Silently, he started towards the female, eager to put an end to the creature before it harmed anyone else.
Before he could reach her, though, the female finally noticed its mate’s death. A terrible scream echoed around the clearing as it spun towards Romaine, and he saw again the madness in its eyes, the desire to rend and tear and kill.
But for once the lieutenant acted without thinking. The only one left with a weapon, he urged his horse forward while the Tangata was distracted and drove the steel-tipped lance through the creature’s back.
The awful howl was instantly cut short, and a thud followed as the beast crumpled to the snow. Silence returned to the clearing…only to be punctuated by the soft cries of Flagers.
For an instant, Romaine kept his eyes fixed on the Tangata.
Blood pounded in his ears and he still felt the need for battle within him, that terrible rage demanding he charge forward, axe raised, battlecry on his lips.
But the fight was over, their enemies dead, and slowly the pounding subsided.
Despair rose to take its place, and silently Romaine turned to look again at the boy. Before he realized what he was doing, Romaine staggered forward and dropped to one knee beside the Perfugian. There was nothing he could do for the lad—not even a doctor could have saved him from such a wound.
“Romaine?” Flagers gasped, his voice trembling. “Romaine, it hurts…don’t know what happened. I’m…sorry.”
“It’s okay, lad,” Romaine murmured. As he spoke, he reached for the dagger on his belt. “It’s going to be okay.”
“It hurts, Romai…” The words trailed off as the boy’s eyes slid closed. A few moments later, his breathing ceased as well.
Releasing the boy, Romaine sat back. His eyes were drawn to the blood pooling in the snow, still seeping from the wound he’d opened in the recruit’s groin. A lump lodged in his throat and he felt the boy’s lifeless eyes watching him, accusing. It had been a mercy, and yet…the face of another boy flickered into his mind. He lay not in snow but a bed of roses. Romaine scrunched his eyes closed, trying to banish the image.
“Is he…?”
A voice was calling from behind him. Shaking off his grief, Romaine stood and faced the lieutenant.
“Gone,” he said shortly.
The lieutenant swallowed, his eyes drawn to the corpse. He held his sword in hand now, its tip trembling. It was probably the first time he had faced the Tangata in battle.
A flicker from across the clearing. The unfamiliar woman was standing beside the body of the male Tangata, staring at its gruesome remains. Her face was unusually pale for the Calafe and freckles dotted her cheeks, but the heavy fur coat and woollen leggings were a familiar.
Romaine watched as she knelt beside the Tangata. She seemed more curious than afraid. The woman couldn’t have more than twenty years to her name. What was she doing out here, all alone?
Casting one last glance at the dead boy, Romaine let out a sigh, then started towards the young woman. Her head whipped around at the sound of his footsteps, and amber eyes widened, fixing on the bloody axe he still carried in one hand. Seeing her fear, Romaine paused, then setting the weapon on the ground, he continued with empty hands.
“Easy now,” he said.
“You killed him,” the young woman murmured, rising to her feet and facing Romaine.
She spoke in a strange, singsong accent unfamiliar to Romaine—though that was not unusual in Calafe. His people were a nomadic sort, and there were many groups who would spend months or even years apart from civilisation. The isolation bred strange tones, though if this woman belonged to such a group, where were the others?
“Ay,” Romaine replied to her question. “It’s dead. You’re safe now, lass.”
A tremor shook the woman and she raised a hand, as though to keep him back. Her other hung limp at her side, and Romaine realised she had been injured. Well, she’d gotten lucky if all the Tangata had given her was a broken arm—they were said to do terrible things to those they captured.
“It’s okay,” Romaine said, trying again to comfort her. He reached out a hand. “We’ll take you to safety.”
“No!”
The woman’s voice echoed from the nearby trees as she leapt away from him. But whether from the cold or some unknown injury, her legs failed to support her weight, and she crumpled into a snowdrift with a muffled cry—quickly silenced.
Romaine was at her side in an instant. Her broken arm lay at an awkward angle in the snow and her eyes were closed—she must have lost consciousness from the pain.
“Is she alright?” the lieutenant asked. He approached with sword still in hand, as though the woman might yet somehow prove to be an enemy.
Romaine placed a finger on the woman’s throat. Her pulse was racing and erratic, but strong, and he nodded as the lieutenant drew to a stop alongside him.
“Her arm’s broken. Passed out from the pain, or maybe shock. We’d better get her on one of the horses.” There would be plenty spare, now.
“Poor lass,” the lieutenant said as he looked at the woman. “What was she doing out here?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” Romaine replied.
“I’ll fetch Flagers’s horse,” the lieutenant murmured, then hesitated. “Shame, about the lad. I told him to hang back, but…” He shrugged and turned away.
Romaine said nothing. What more was there to say? The boy had never had any business being out here, untrained, unprepared. But then, he’d had little choice in the matter. Unlike the citizens of Flumeer or Calafe, Perfugians did not decide their own fates. That was a matter for their betters, a judgement passed down by their Sovereigns.
Rising, he lifted the woman in his arms and crossed to where one of the surviving scouts had gathered the horses. She was surprisingly heavy in her thick furs—or perhaps it was merely exhaustion finally catching him—but regardless, Romaine was relieved when he settled her in the saddle of Flagers’s horse. Taking care with her arm, he bound the woman so she would not fall, and then looked for a mount of his own.
The dead scout’s horse had emerged from the battle unscathed, and before long they were on the trail once more, riding north. The battle had cost them precious time and the light faded quickly. The sun plummeted towards the western treeline, setting the horizon alight.
It was still an hour from dark when the howling began in the forest behind them.
3
The Archivist
Erika paused as she leaned backwards over the void, the darkness beckoning below. Only the corded rope looped around her waist held her in place. A shiver touched her, but now was not the time for second thoughts, and with a last look at her two assistants, she kicked off into the chasm. The rope slid through her fingers as she descended, the pitch-black reaching up to embrace her.
Soon the oil lantern clipped to her backpack became the only source of light, as the opening above shrank to nothing. The air grew colder, damp with the breath of the earth, and she shivered again, her eyes searching the absolute dark below for sign of the bottom. The lantern flickered and the black seemed to press closer, as though trying to repel her, to keep her from the secrets that had lain hidden from human eyes for centuries.
There were those who said these places were haunted, that they were the sacred sites of the Gods, or the birthplace of the Tangata. The details changed from story to story, but all agreed that entrance was forbidden, that to step foot in these hidden places was to call death down upon the human race.
As if that weren’t already coming.
Erika ignored such superstitions. The small-minded who believed such fancy had held back humanity for long enough. They could no longer afford such ignorance. Flumeer needed every weapon it could find for the war to come.
Fortunately, the Flumeeren queen had finally come to see her point of view. Now Erika just had to discover something of use in these lost places, something that might change the tide of the war.
So far though, her search had proven fruitless. The other sites had been empty; whatever secrets they’d once contained long lost to the passage of time.
And the queen was not known for her patience. She had taken a gamble, supporting Erika in the face of resistance from nobles who preferred to leave the past buried. What would happen if Erika came back empty-handed a third time?
“This is the place,” Erika whispered to herself, breath now fogging in the lanternlight. “This time I will find it.”
The magic of the Gods.
Those had been the words that had convinced the queen. Erika had spent most of her life studying their long-lost deities, whose magic had once been shared freely with humanity. What wonders had her ancestors witnessed in those glorious times before The Fall? Before the traitors amongst their ranks had grown jealous
of the Gods and stolen the forbidden powers?
Only legends told of that time now. The traitors had sought to use the stolen magics to reshape themselves, seeking to join the Divine. But when the Gods had discovered the violation, their rage had been terrible, and instead the thieves had been cursed to madness. They had become the Tangata.
If only the anger of the Gods could be so easily sated.
All humanity had been equal before their omniscient gaze, and so all humanity had been cast down.
A hundred years of darkness had followed.
Fools!
Just the thought of that ancient betrayal caused Erika to tighten her grip about the rope. The Tangata had ruined everything, sentenced humanity to crawl amidst the dirt like common beasts for their avarice. Even when the light had finally returned, humanity had found the Gods gone, returned to their citadels amidst the clouds.
But the Tangata had remained.
Surely there was a design in that, some divine plan. Erika was convinced it was a test, a trial to see whether humanity could put right the mistakes of their ancestors. The Gods would not have left them alone to face the beasts, not unless there was a reason, a chance for victory.
And so she searched in these ancient places, searching for what had been forgotten by the mind of men, for a power left to them by the Gods to defeat the Tangata.
She had dedicated her entire life to it.
Thunk.
Erika stumbled as her feet struck solid earth. She would have fallen, but instinctively she had stopped letting out rope and now it brought her up short. Getting her feet back under her, she straightened.
Overhead, the entrance was little more than a pinprick now. Unclipping the lantern from her pack, she held it high to make sure she was truly at the bottom. On three sides the shaft was hard rock, but on the fourth a tunnel led into the darkness. She swore at the sight of water dripping from the walls. That was as the other sites had been, their contents rotted away long ago.