Reality had dawned upon him; he did not want to be here in these strange lands with these people. They were all dead inside. But, he re-examined, that means I must be as well. He wanted out, to return to Jovian and see his brother and grandfather once more. He was sure if he begged hard enough his grandfather would forgive him and welcome him back with open arms. Perhaps he would see Dashera too and ask for her forgiveness. He knew he did not deserve it, but he would ask for it all the same. But there was no chance of him ever being free. As Raynmaher had told him, defection was desertion, and desertion equals death. Fuck! He screamed so loudly inside his mind, he was certain his comrades beside him had also heard it. It was like a nightmare that he could not wake up from. Nightmares were horrid, but at least they ended. Life just seemed to drag on and on, and every waking moment was a hardship. Where had his anger gone? He missed it terribly. It had given him purpose; it made him long for the kill, not dread it like he did now. What has happened inside of me? What changed? Was it Ednon? His grandfather? Either Torjan or his ex-love Dashera? Or was it that moment he had shared beneath the moonlight with Saniya and the momentary feelings of bliss that he had felt, much like a set of sparks being set off inside of him. He speculated this was most likely it. Why was it that the emptiness was beginning to fill? And now, after all this time, he was finally starting to feel human.
“Syros…” uttered a timid voice.
He turned around to see Freckon standing behind him; Syros was completely shocked that the young lad had spoken, never mind to him of all people.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“You dropped your pin…”
He searched his military uniform to see that the golden pin had indeed fallen off. He tapped each of his pockets to see if he had placed it within one of them and had forgotten doing so. The fresh-faced lad, however, relieved some of his worries by stretching out his hand, revealing the golden article.
Syros took it from him. “Thanks.”
“Sy…” Freckon continued. He appeared to be scanning the area to make sure no other members of their company could overhear them.
The rest of the unit had continued their path up the rocky mountain passes, leaving them both isolated some distance behind. They had trekked so far up the mountains, Syros was certain he had never been so high before. Still there was no sign of life, no Alpelites or indeed life forms of any kind; just their company alone with the rocky terrain, and the pure white clouds that grew closer with each step.
“What is it?” Syros asked.
The freckle-faced boy’s face flamed with embarrassment. “I’m scared…” he uttered in a way that reminded Syros so much of Ednon. Syros did not know how to respond. He was also scared, but he was sure all members of the company felt the same. Well, all except one, he reassessed. He looked upon the lad, whose eyes remained fixed to the ground. He is still only a child, Syros thought to himself, staring upon the lad. However, he was old enough to have joined the military and, to Syros’s knowledge, he had done so willingly.
“Ed-” he quickly stopped himself. “Freck,” Syros restarted, trying to display true concern. “We all feel fear. It is good that you feel this; it shows your humanity isn’t lost.” He thought this over with Mercivous in his mind. “It shows that you’re not a monster.”
The lad’s wide eyes still seemed terrified. It appeared that Syros’s words had not calmed his anxiety.
“What scares you the most?”
The lad’s eyes remarkably widened even further. And his head too, once more, scanned the location to check on their privacy. He took a few moments before uttering in an almost silent, petrified voice, “Mercivous… ”
“Yes, he scares me too,” Syros admitted. “But some words of advice…”
The lad lifted his head and, for what may have been the first time ever, he matched Syros’s eyes.
“Do not show your fear. Even if that is all you feel, if it is all that circulates around your being. Do not show your fear when you are around him; he will feed off it. Whatever happens, stay calm, and remember that Raynmaher and the others will return in the next couple of days.”
Syros wondered if his words had had a positive effect or not. He could not gauge a response; it had probably made Freckon feel even worse. He was never one for words, especially those meant for comfort. At least he knew how to fight, but he was not sure what, if anything, Freckon could do – except pray and stay forever frightened.
“Oi!”
Koman was calling to them from a few hundred yards away.
“You two finished your make-out session yet?” he exclaimed in excited amusement. “The savages’ village is just up ahead!”
With a long deep breath in, together Syros and Freckon made their way to rendezvous with the rest of the company who were all crouching behind thorn-covered bushes, viewing the Alpelite village. Syros moved closer and gazed down. It was remarkable; their homes were so like the cottages from Jovian. The way they carried around hay and other farm necessities, the way the young played with one another, all seemed so very human. The village was small – smaller than Jovian by quite a distance. There didn’t seem to be many Alpelites down there. He only counted twenty or so out on the barren fields. This was his first time ever seeing the species, but he did not feel rage as he had once anticipated. He did not feel anything as he peered down upon them.
“Get off!” Narcisi shouted at Koman, whose hand was resting on her backside.
“So, what’s the plan, Merc?” Deckard asked in a way that sounded unnervingly eager.
Mercivous’s eyes were beginning to glisten. “We go down there and we make our entrance.”
“What?” Steph sounded fearful. “We just walk in without a plan?”
Ignoring Steph, Mercivous stood up. Following an instruction, the others did the same and followed Mercivous as he walked calmly, as if with no care in the world, down the mountain pass and into the foreign surroundings. The Alpelites’ heads all swivelled towards them as they walked closer to their homes, but they did not run or act overly concerned. Syros wondered how much understanding they had, as they congregated around the troop. The Alpelites all talked in hushed voices as Mercivous, as if conducting an orchestra, opened his arms out to them all.
“Does any here among you speak our language?” Mercivous called, his arms remaining outstretched. He seemed to be making fun of his recently received authority.
“I do,” spoke one of the Alpelites; though rough and unpolished, it had, remarkably, just spoken Human as it moved out from the crowd. Syros was surprised how clearly it articulated his language. He never assumed for one moment that he could have a conversation with the monsters that he had fantasied about killing ever since he was a child. He perused the crowd. He thought he could ascertain a difference between the males and the females, as he matched the wide-eyed stares of the three-eyed life forms. The males seemed taller, with smaller eyes and a sharper bone and facial structure, while the females were more hunched over, with softer faces. The young children stood around, holding onto their mothers much like human children did when frightened. These were not the ferocious monsters that he had been envisaging for so long.
“Oh!” Mercivous spoke with sarcastic surprise. “And what is your name, O Great Life Form of the mountains?” He really holds no fear, Syros thought. In fact, for him and some of the others in their company, this situation seemed to only breed confidence.
“My name is Deskkervel…” the Alpelite said as it stepped forward. This one was male and older than the others.
“Is it really?” Mercivous’s manner was purely condescending. “I don’t think I shall remember that… I think I’ll call you Foul instead.” Syros heard some of the other members of Zelta Squadron beside him begin to snicker.
The Alpelite appeared to become nervous, as it rubbed its dark brown-greenish hands together uncertainly. It remained standing,
however, despite Mercivous’s unsubtle attempt to belittle it. “And… what shall I call you?” it asked of Mercivous. A hint of fear, Syros noticed, was beginning to manifest in its voice.
“Sir will do just fine.”
“Sir… ” the Alpelite returned carefully, not wanting to provoke the dead-eyed monster staring it down. “Our village has already been inspected.” Its grasp of the human language became harder to understand as it became visibly more nervous. “By a… Simms.”
Mercivous nodded. “Oh yes. I heard of the visit Simms and company paid you, before you violently attacked them!”
The Alpelite shook its head furiously. “No… No!” it pleaded. “Not we… renegades… radicals… from Ankor…” Its speech was becoming almost completely unintelligible. In this moment, Syros saw that Alpelites, very much like humans, could sweat from fear. “This is a peaceful village…” it finished, gazing upon the stone-cold face of the last person in the universe with whom you would ever wish to be pleading.
“Peaceful?” Mercivous uttered with a bemused laugh. “Are you trying to lie to me, Foul? I can always sense a liar.”
“No! No!” urged the newly-named Foul. “It is true… this village is separate… from all military doings… we are peaceful.”
Mercivous tutted as he mockingly shook his head from left to right. “Foul… Foul. I feel as if you do not respect my authority. And if you don’t, well, then how will the rest of you?” he said, once again opening his arms to the remaining Alpelites.
Deskkervel placed its two hands together in a prayer motion. “I assure you… you will have our full co-operation.”
Syros feared the creature’s pleas would go unheard. In fact, he knew they would. He had known it from the moment he had first heard that Mercivous was to lead this mission. The feeling had followed him ever since. He had known the inevitable outcome.
As expected, Mercivous gave it a menacing smile, before facing the rest of the company behind him. “I want this one dead,” he ordered, and within a moment, despite yells and pleading from the on-looking Alpelite crowd, Koman and Deckard descended upon it. Koman, twice its size, punched it in the stomach, causing it to fall onto its knees, while Deckard unsheathed his long sword and placed it over the creature’s neck.
“Merc…” spoke up the dark-skinned and thin-bodied Jamison, trying to be heard over the ensuing chaos. “Didn’t Raynmaher say not to do anything rash before we rendezvous?
“Yes.” Syros quickly backed him up. “This person does not deserve this.”
“Person?” Mercivous uttered in bewilderment, his attention on Syros. “You consider these savages people? Such compassion, Syros. Maybe I was wrong… perhaps you were always the born hero.”
“If I am a born hero,” Syros stood tall as he gazed upon all his fear personified into one cold human vessel and its lifeless, yet somehow piercing eyes, “then that makes you a born villain.”
Mercivous kept his eyes fixed upon the ground. Then, swiftly and viciously, he gripped Syros’s head and brought it to only inches away from his own. Mercivous held on fiercely, but Syros did not care about the pain; complete and utter terror was all that overtook him. He struggled desperately, trying to break free, but Mercivous, much like a snake encircling its victim, did not release him. Then, he saw something that surprised him more than anything he could remember. Mercivous’s eyes were filled with tears. He questioned whether it was true, but there was no mistake; the eyes an inch or two away from his own were unmistakably weeping. This scared him more than anything. Syros struggled violently until Mercivous willingly let go of him. He started breathing heavily, with no idea of how to interpret what he had witnessed.
Mercivous, on the other hand, walked away as if nothing at all had happened, before he stopped himself, seemingly struck by an epiphany. “I have an idea…” he turned his attention to Freckon, who was hiding sheepishly behind the tall Steph. “I want the small one to do it.”
“What, no!” cried the young lad, as Koman grabbed him, bringing him over to where Deskkervel was kneeling still with Deckard’s sword to its neck.
“Strike hard, you little cunt!” Deckard laughed, placing the sword into the petrified hands of Freckon, who instantly began to cry.
The sight was so horrible, Syros longed so much to look away. But with Mercivous continuing to stare at him, he gazed back, not wanting to show his fear. Why was he crying? Syros questioned to himself, as he considered the voids of Mercivous’s eyes. Was that even possible? Or was he mocking human emotion? Was he that far removed from the rest of us? Or was it merely insanity that dictated his actions? He guessed that was it, as he broke their mutual exchange. He could not take it. The screaming. Freckon’s crying. His own indecision. He wanted to do something, but what?
“Do it!” Deckard screamed into the ear of Freckon, whose entire body was rattling vigorously.
Syros shut his eyes at this moment; and as the Alpelites’ shouts and cries intensified, he heard the thudding sound of a sword being swung. He reopened his eyes to see Freckon shaking, his entire right arm covered in blood. Mercivous, who was smiling, was still staring intently at Syros. The Alpelites moved forwards, with angered yells and violent motions. But they had no weapons and most seemed too old and meek, or too young. The other members of Zelta withdrew their swords and pointed them towards the crowd, attempting to silence it. Within this moment, Syros heard a loud roar from the hut beside him and out stepped an Alpelite, large and stocky, almost the size of his friend Torjan. It wielded a heavy battle-axe and ran straight towards him. Sensing the danger that he was in, Syros quickly withdrew his sword and parried the fierce blow. It had tremendous strength behind it, so much so that it knocked him to the floor with his sword flying out of his grip. Utterly defenceless, he looked up towards the Alpelite who had an expression of pure rage across its face. As it lifted its axe, intent on the finishing strike, Syros closed his eyes in anticipation of his death, before Steph quickly stepped in, slicing the Alpelite across its back, causing it to fall to the ground.
Syros stood up, breathing heavily. “Thank you,” he told Steph, who was looking just as pale and panicked. At this moment, another Alpelite came charging out of the hut. This one was not as big as the previous one and wielded a halberd instead of an axe. As it made its way to within a couple of yards of them both, Mercivous stepped in and blocked the life form’s path. The speed of his hands is ridiculous, Syros thought to himself, watching Mercivous engaging in swordplay with the creature, before he swiftly cut off the Alpelite’s head.
Victorious, Mercivous moved towards Syros and Steph, wiping his blade as he walked. “What do we have here? You seem much more the warrior type.”
With deep, growling breaths, the Alpelite uttered, “Human filth… ”
“I bet you two were part of the group that attacked Simms’ company, weren’t you? You will be useful, and you speak Human, which is a bonus. Sorry about your friend…We will keep this one alive,” Mercivous informed the rest of the troop.
“What do we do with the other ones, Merc?” Deckard smirked, anticipating the answer.
“Round them up,” Mercivous ordered, the coldness returning to his voice. “Kill all those that struggle… ” The others pushed their way past the crying Freckon, moving upon the hoard of Alpelites, who were now desperately trying to get away from the evil monster that was humanity.
“Let the cleansing begin,” Mercivous murmured playfully, as the members of Zelta hacked their swords into the crowd. Yells and wailing were all that could be heard as death engulfed the once peaceful village, while blood stained its very air.
Syros could not prevent the blood lust. Instead, as the screams intensified, he watched the desperation within the eyes of the Alpelite who had come so close to taking his life. He observed the Alpelite trying to stand, but falling back down due to its injuries and the cries of anguish it made as the body stockpile of its
fellow species grew. Syros was sympathetic and guilt also poured through him. His heart felt as if it had dropped inside his mouth and in this moment, he no longer cursed his existence because comparably he had it lucky. He prayed Raynmaher and the others did not take long rendezvousing with them, because if they did, then he feared for them all, be they Alpelite or human.
11
Oedipia’s Temporal
In the silence Ednon heard the lucid voices as if from a scattered memory singing to him like a lullaby from times long past, “Come yonder, our empty vessel.” He made his way out of the nothingness and into the black. He dared not disobey the voices, not after all that they had done for him. To be granted eternal life, for all this, truly he was blessed. He drifted through the darkness, searching. Searching for something that had existed far longer than even the universe itself. He had no idea how long he had been seeking, but it did not matter because, within this state of being, nothing mattered. He tried to locate his arms which were not there; if they had been, he would have outstretched them towards the eye as it came into his vision. In this tranquil reunion, he stopped and admired for as long as he could, before the light hit and he was, once again, back within the murkiness of existence.
Awaking in the blinding light, he found himself on the empty streets of central Asterleigh. Night must have descended as there was no one else in the vicinity. Not entirely sure he was even present there himself, he glided through the stony streets. The silence stood out to him, not at all how these streets would have been in his waking life. Finally, he had what he was pining for. A sense of calmness was all he experienced as he drifted to the shores of the Great Asterleigh Lake, where he found Medzu was already staring back down towards him from its clouds. Then, as he stood with arms raised, the tides of the lake swirled upwards. Medzu was illuminating as the waters reached the sentry God. The light continued to shine and his brain swelled; he had opened his mouth to shout when, without warning, the ground beneath him collapsed and with a silent scream he spiralled into the darkness.
To Tame the Sentry Being Page 11