Ednon woke with a panicked yell. He was in his new bedroom, in the home he was still not familiar with. He hoped he had not woken Amelia in the bedroom beside his own, or Abacus and Jernett in their room down the hall. My dreams are poison. Laying back onto his bed, Ednon closed his eyes. But it was no use, he could not escape the anxiety and images that haunted him, so he got up and paced in a circle, attempting a head-on confrontation with the thoughts. He remembered all his dreams clearly, as if they were not dreams at all, but rather they were his actual self. It was his waking life that he struggled to remember. Except for the horror; he could remember all that quite well. Especially the face of the young girl he had seen lying in the street only a couple of hundred yards from where he was now. He also remembered the smoke, the fiery scent of death, that he could swear followed him everywhere he went like an ever-present spectre. The city had been placed on high alert following the attack, but no culprits had yet been found. The fear of further explosions had caused the inhabitants of Asterleigh to become guarded and paranoid. Terror ran through the city, as if it were a virus being spread from one fearful soul to another. He wondered who would do such a thing. It couldn’t possibly have been the Alpelites, it was not likely they could go unspotted in a city populated only by humans. So… who was responsible? For as long as he had grown up with Syros, his brother had always referred to the adversarial species as ‘monsters’; he wondered what his brother would call the ones who were responsible for these attacks as, if his speculations were correct, they were most likely human. His grandfather rarely talked of the Alpelites, but when he did he spoke only of peace and coexistence with the life form. But he was not certain his grandfather had ever encountered any of the three-eyed creatures, so what experience could the man have been speaking from? Plus, on the night Ira had died, he had confessed to Ednon his true thoughts and feelings about the hatred he held for the Alpelites who had raided his village and killed Ednon’s parents. So why had the old man leaned so heavily towards these ideals of love and acceptance? Had it only been a facade? Why love those who only hate? It all seemed like blind sanctimonious babble. He longed for Ira to be alive again to help guide his mind through these confusing times. He also wanted his brother to be back from the military, so they could all live on their old farm in Jovian once again. However, these outcomes were only to be found within his fantasies.
Walking around his room, desperately seeking a distraction, he saw a book on the right side of his desk. The title read Poems from Worlds Long Gone; it was the book that Ira had sent him to get on the morning before his death. I never did give it to him. He picked it up; the book was small and dusty with pages either torn or missing entirely. It must have been old, exceptionally old. He had read many books written hundreds of years ago, but Ednon estimated this one could be the oldest. Lying back down upon his bed, and not wanting to risk the chance of any more unpleasant dreams, he decided to open the pages and digest their meaning.
Daylight had come and the morning with it. Making his way out of his bedroom and down into the kitchen, he found Amelia and her parents already eating their breakfast. With pseudo joy, they bid him a good morning. He did not blame them for being false with their happiness – in fact, he admired it. The recent news of attacks and explosions around the city were enough to make even the most jubilant of optimists turn a little grey and colder. If he had not been feeling so separated from himself, he also would have attempted the joyous fallacy. But it was far too much effort with not enough consequence, so he instead decided to respond with a gloomy ‘Morning’, before pulling out a chair from the dining table.
“How was your sleep, Ednon?”
“Fine.” He gave his usual response. He could not be honest with them. At least that was how he felt. He did not tell them his dreams. It was not like with Ira and Syros, when he would spend hours discussing them. He did not know what the future would bring or even if it was worth worrying about. Does it truly matter? Any of it? If the world is genuinely nearing its end?
Abacus peered over the top of his morning newspaper, filled with all its death and dreary reminders, and, seemingly sensing his mood, uttered, “Say, Ed… How about you come and see where I work? Like how you’ve been asking.”
Ednon stared in silent puzzlement. He had never asked to see Abacus’s workplace – in fact, he didn’t know where Abacus worked and had never thought to question it.
“Okay…”
“It would be good to go out and get your mind off all the unpleasantness,” Jernett added, as she cleaned a bit more violently.
“Can I come as well, Dad?” Ameila asked.
“No, sweetheart,” Abacus laughed. Ednon noticed that he did not sound at all affected by recent events, because his laugh and upbeat attitude, unlike the others, did not seem faked. “You stay here with your mother. You will see enough of Ed when he comes home.” Abacus turned back to Ednon. “So, Ed, do you want to go now?”
“Let Ednon eat some food, dear. The poor lad has just woken up.”
“No, it’s okay. I can just get something in the marketplace.”
Abacus nodded as they both got up from the dining table. Ednon was wondering what this was about; was it to do with his grandfather and this Order that he had apparently been involved with? For the first time in ages, he was beginning to feel excited. He had not known much about his grandfather as a young man, but, from the way people spoke about him, it was as if he were some type of demi-god.
“Bye, Ed,” Amelia smiled at him.
“Bye, Am.” He responded with a smile of his own. It was fake, but for her he was willing to join the deception.
They travelled through the streets of East Asterleigh. From this distance, Ednon could still see Mundie’s Tavern or at least what was left of it. There had been construction teams working on the place day and night ever since the explosion. Rumours were that they were going to erect a monument dedicated to the thirty-eight people who had lost their lives. Though he did not agree with the military’s actions, he still mourned for the random act of violence that had not only taken the soldiers’ lives, but also that of the young child whose eyes he could still picture, staring lifelessly. He wished he could forget her, but he couldn’t; he suspected her image would most likely accompany him until the day he joined her in death.
The streets were packed as the weather, now unsurprisingly, was still scorching. This may have been his imagination, but he also thought that the suns looked closer than they had ever been previously – but he dismissed this notion as paranoia. There must be an explanation for the continuous heat, something logical. But he could not find one, other than pure luck and good fortune. They walked deep into the city’s centre; old homeless men and women held placards while yelling about the world’s end. It made him feel nervous; not because of the phantom’s words backing their theories, but because now he questioned his own sanity. Would he be among them at their age? Ignored and mocked – homeless on the streets, preaching of a world’s ending that never comes? Were they also haunted by phantoms who had once told them they were special?
“We’re here,” Abacus announced abruptly, stopping Ednon in his tracks.
He was surprised to see the building to which Abacus had brought him. It was a tavern, large and impressively structured, but still only a tavern. A golden sign read “Oedipia’s Temporal” – Strange name, Ednon thought to himself.
“Isn’t it a bit early to start drinking, Abacus?”
“Ednon, can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I need you not to tell anyone what I am about to tell you, not Jernett nor indeed Amelia… Can you promise me this, Ed?”
Ednon gave a nod.
“Truth is,” Abacus began, his hands rubbing together from tension, “I have not worked for many years and for this I have become a liar, even to my own family. Remember at Ira’s funeral, I told you of an Order? Well, the Elder
s have decided it is time for you to be welcomed in, despite your young age.”
Ednon had so many questions that he did not know where to begin. “What have you been doing for money all these years?”
“The Order takes care of all that… truth is, Ednon, I am now one of these Elders and that is the true reason for our move to Asterleigh.”
Ednon was now more excited than he had been for years. The idea of secret Orders and Elders was certainly a more intriguing motive for moving to the capital than obscure work opportunities. However, he reflected, although it was impressive for a tavern, it did not look like the headquarters of anything too legitimate, especially compared to the number of grandiose buildings and temples that were spread throughout the city.
“Why a tavern?”
“It’s not always a tavern,” Abacus said, looking back towards the structure. “Our Order is large and reaches across not only Asterleigh, but our entire Empire. We have many friends, Ednon, many willing to offer themselves for our cause.”
“What cause?” He felt as if this was probably the most important question, but was only now able to ask it.
“What else? Bringing an end to the war, of course.”
“Why did the Elders ask for my help?”
“My lad, you are the grandson of none other than one of our founding members.” Abacus was now displaying some excitement of his own. “Despite your lack of years, you have already shown yourself to be quite the visionary. You have much potential, lad. And the other Elders have also seen this in you.”
Ednon took the compliment, but the only thing he thought of were the words ‘one of the founding members’. He wondered who the others were; who had known and fought alongside his grandfather all those years ago? Were there many men like his grandfather? His line of questioning was interrupted by Abacus, who gave an indication for Ednon to follow him inside.
Ednon stepped through the doors of the tavern. It was like many others, dark and gloomy, with a bar to one side and dining tables to the other. The room was almost completely empty for this time in the morning, expect for two gentlemen sitting by one of the tables, along with the bartender, keeping to himself, cleaning the empty glasses. The two men glanced up as Abacus and Ednon entered the interior. With a nod, they both uttered in gritty voices, ‘Abacus.’ He had seen these faces before at Ira’s funeral, but, having met so many new people that day, he could not remember either of their names.
“Ednon,” Abacus said, as they made their way over. “This is Levy.” He indicated the man on his right; a slightly chubby man with thin balding hair and glasses, and the younger of the two. He stretched out his hand to Ednon, who returned the welcome.
“You’ve got a lot taller since the last time I saw you, Ednon,” said the man.
It’s true, Ednon thought; he had gained almost a foot in height since Ira’s funeral.
“And this is Jung.” Abacus pointed to the older gentleman to his left. With long grey hair that ran down past his shoulders, this man seemed nearer Ira’s age, except his face appeared more worn out, with additional wrinkles and tiredness. Unlike the younger Levy, Jung did not stretch out his hand to Ednon, instead opting to finish his beverage. With a slightly aggressive manner, he slammed the drink onto the table, and gazed up towards him.
“So, this will be the first meeting for the precious heredity of Ira?” the old man slurred his words, clearly drunk. “Well, lad, in a few years’ time, when you have been to as many of these meetings as I have, you too will find that they only become bearable after getting utterly shit-faced.” He began to laugh, but interrupted himself with a loud coughing fit.
“Do excuse my friend,” Levy apologised, in a calmer, more intelligible voice. “I fear that Jung has grown cold to the world in his old age; despite this, he is still somewhat useful in these meetings after all these years.”
Jung raised his empty glass to the sky. “You’re damn right! I haven’t been to a meeting sober in over ten years. Yet I am still the greatest mind amongst these pseudo-elite thinkers.”
“Yes, your wisdom is unparalleled.” Levy rolled his eyes. “Do you know the time, Abacus?”
“Should be almost nine. The meeting will be commencing soon.”
Ednon looked around bewildered. Was this truly it? This Order that he built up so very high within his mind was the three of them getting lashed in whatever taverns were open at this time of the morning?
“Umm… will it only be we four, then?”
The three of them looked at each other and then laughed in unison. “Lord no, lad,” Jung exulted in a rough voice. “We are only here to get a few drinks in us before it starts. No, you will be much more impressed when we reach our true locale.”
“Speaking of which,” Levy got to his feet, “you know how Luther hates it whenever we are late.”
“Luther…” Jung growled. “That arrogant, rich, good for noth-”
“Jung, watch yourself! You do not know who may be listening…”
The old man sighed, but, seemingly getting Abacus’s point, refrained from continuing. It must be the same Luther he had met at Ira’s funeral, Ednon speculated. Was he also involved in this Order?
“I think we are done,” Levy called. “Lock the doors… ” And with that the bartender came out from behind the bar, made his way over to the entrance, pulled out his key and, with a loud clanking sound, locked them both.
“Are we not going out that way?” Ednon asked Abacus.
“No, Ednon,” Abacus said, giving him a wide grin. “For this meeting, we merely need to travel underground.”
12
The Feast of Zelta
196 Days until the New Year
Syros sat alone in one of the abandoned Alpelite huts. He wished not to see anyone, human or other. He heard blood-curdling cries from the outside and tried not to imagine what grisly horrors Mercivous and his other comrades were putting the Alpelite villagers through. The screams had not stopped from the moment he had shut himself away from the carnage. All he wanted to do was stay here in his isolated loneliness until Raynmaher and the others arrived. He wondered what Saniya and Torjan were doing right now and whether their mission had been as blood-filled as his own. Were they also beginning to question what they had signed up for? He heard the young wailing and the old begging for mercy in broken Human tongue. He once again asked himself what the hell it was that he was doing here. This was not the vengeance he had envisaged. It was solely barbaric, lacking in anything that could remotely resemble compassion, neither soothing nor justifiable, only senseless destruction.
Mercivous had rounded up all the remaining Alpelites and tied them together as if they were animals. Well, he analysed, I guess they are, but if the Alpelites are animals, then what does that make us? He had never witnessed such pure delirium, not until he saw Mercivous’s face as the slaughter commenced. No, best he stayed inside this place – this strange place that so closely resembled his old home in Jovian. It had beds, a fireplace, tables and chairs, even paintings on the walls of small Alpelite infants. Have they already been butchered and taken away from this world? Perhaps that was for the best. He only hoped Mercivous and the others did not prolong their agony. He sat in the corner of the small interior, surveying the hut’s opening, hand on blade. If Mercivous and the others came for him, he was ready. He would cut them down or die trying. Sweat was pouring off him uncontrollably; he had not slept for the entirety of the two days that he had been in here. How could he, when bloodthirsty demons ran amuck outside? It was surely only a matter of time before they came for him.
“Syros?”
He held onto his sword firmly. He did not recognise the voice, but it did not matter. They had all taken part in the bloodshed, all of them had bloodlust in their gaze. He had seen it in their eyes, eyes to which he had never been able to connect, despite their years together in the military camps. Syros sat up and
withdrew his sword as the broad Deckard pushed past the hanging beads and walked into the hut.
“So, that’s where you are!” The big-jawed Deckard smirked after he spotted Syros huddled in the corner. “You’ve been missing all the fun, Sy. Why not join us?”
“No,” Syros held onto his sword tightly. “No, I think I shall stay here.”
Deckard was much larger than him in both width and height, but he had faced him many times in the training courtyard back in Asterleigh. If push came to shove, Syros was confident he could take him. He searched his comrade’s eyes for something to which he could relate; he was not sure there was anything going on behind Deckard’s eyes at the best of times, but now he was certain they were nothing but cold and unfeeling.
Deckard rummaged through his pockets. “Suit yourself… a message came for you from headquarters.” He threw a sealed letter to the ground.
“A message?” Syros reached forward and retrieved it.
“Yeah. A messenger arrived not too long ago.”
“And what did this messenger say after he laid eyes on the village?”
“Don’t know,” Deckard declared with a shrug. “He’s dead now, so I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
“You killed him. Why?”
“We couldn’t let him return to camp and spoil all our fun, could we? If anyone asks, we can just blame it on one of the savages.”
Ironic, Syros thought, as he watched the blood drip from Deckard’s oversized hands.
The devilish expression had returned to Deckard’s face. “Come and join us, Sy. We are about to have a feast and we wouldn’t like to see our fellow comrade go hungry.”
To Tame the Sentry Being Page 12