by Dan O'Brien
The spines were fibrous, a forest of them upon its hump. He lashed out, cutting the spines free of its back. Fountains of blood erupted, covering his view. The open sores of its deforestation oozed with puss. The ground was once again unstable for Marlowe.
Beyond the spines, the abdomen was still submerged. Marlowe looked up the incline that he had slid down. The brain center of the creature was near its eyes. He climbed as he had climbed before, sword digging for grip and hold, axe in reciprocation.
Hand over hand.
He reached the top of the Mimic.
It had lost its fight.
The jaws opened more like a moan; its movements were like convulsions. Marlowe looked at the stricken features of the Mimic and felt sadness. There was so much carnage, death. Hollow sockets bled into its mouth, choking it. This was now about mercy. The Mimic was fear incarnate and now it feared.
Marlowe felt his chest heave, his lungs burnt.
The gale that struck him was cold.
Had it come from the mountains?
Had he imagined its temperature?
Was it really warm?
He replaced his one remaining axe into its sticky sheath. Gripping his blade with two hands, he pulled it high above his head. Pointing it down, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Eyes opening widely, he screamed.
Roaring, his voice was like that of a thousand men. He drove the blade down with all his strength. It passed through hide, flesh, and bone. To the hilt he drove it and the Mimic was not beyond pain.
Its body fell into spasms.
Head swirling and body folding in, Marlowe felt the death throes of the creature. He held on as it collapsed in upon itself, sliding down its back as it overturned. Into the sand he fell. Sticking to his skin, the blood of the creature felt heavy as he ran. Far from the sinking creature, he still feared being dragged into the dark depths of the sand along with it.
Night had fallen.
The body was not completely submerged.
Prickling ends of its legs crawled through the ground. Dark black fangs sporadically covered in puddles of sand and blood.
The white sands were stained: purity adulterated.
Marlowe looked upon the fallen Mimic and he lowered his head. He felt the approach of the denizen before he saw Alezander, the Lurking. “I see that you have come, Alezander,” spoke Marlowe, not turning to greet the visage.
The dark cloak was torn and tattered more than it had been in his dreams. Gaping holes bled with shadow blood. Its face was marred in slashes and hack marks. “No man can destroy me. No human can dispel their fear.”
Marlowe turned, grimacing outwardly at the appearance of Alezander. “The Mimic is no more. You are no more.”
“They do not live again, Alexander Marlowe.”
Marlowe shook his head. “But they may move on. Continue on their journey. Your time as their keeper has passed.”
The hole within the cloak brightened, illuminated from behind in yellow light. The cloak crumbled and fell as it burnt. “No. I am eternal. I…”
“You may move on as well, Alezander. May peace be with you.”
Alezander screamed in agony.
“As long as their sleep is enslaved, I will return.”
Marlowe watched as the light overtook Alezander. The ground beneath him was scorched in black. Their minds enslaved: Marlowe knew that it was the mind control of Ark that had born the Lurking, and that Orion was what had sustained it for so many centuries. His path lay to the west, beyond the mountains––at the Tower.
XXIX
M
arlowe knew that the smell that radiated from him was putrid. But it was not until he saw the faces of his friends that he knew the level that his stink had reached.
Mograli’s smile faded. “What is that smell?”
Marlowe smiled sheepishly.
“Not exactly roses, I guess.”
Dana ran past Mograli and gripped Marlowe around the waist tightly, burying her head against his chest. His body was stained with the blood of the Mimic, but no longer was it as viscous or sticky.
The night air had taken care of that.
“When I heard the sounds in the desert,” she began and then backing away, she looked at him in disgust. Her nose was upturned and she held a hand underneath it, the other covering her mouth. “What is that smell? It is horrendous.”
Mograli reached into his side satchel, his lips tight as he fought the smell of the blood. He produced a folded piece of fabric, a potent smell rising from it. “Here, take this Alexander,” he managed as he covered his mouth, imitating dry heaves.
Dana backed away, rejoining Sephes who had maintained her steadfast glare on Marlowe. “You killed it?” asked the huntress pointedly.
Marlowe looked at her with a frown. “No. I found this filthy bog and rolled around in it because I thought smelling like death would be a riot.” He grabbed his pants, pulling free the soaked fabric. “What does it look like, princess?”
Mograli motioned with the fabric again.
“Marlowe, please. This will help the smell.”
Marlowe glared at the young huntress for a moment more before turning to the shaman. He brought the fabric to his nostrils, smelling it gingerly.
“Potent,” he commented.
Mograli smiled, though it was chased away by the smell almost immediately. “Hopefully potent enough, Alexander.”
Marlowe laughed as he opened the fabric fold by fold, the strength of the smell growing. It was a mixture of mint and other herbs. He gestured to the leaves. “What do I do with this exactly?”
Mograli backed away a few steps so that he could smile. “I would suggest rubbing it liberally over your body, unless of course you would like to return to Shadowfall for a bath?”
Mention of turning back stole the mirth from Marlowe. He frowned. “No, we must be moving. The cover of night might make this trek easier.”
Mograli nodded.
The shaman had assumed as much. “As you wish.”
“Do you think we can reach the mountain path by morning?” he asked Mograli as the two girls started forward, ahead of the men. The shaman fell in step beside Marlowe as he began to rub the leaves across his chest, his arms.
He nodded. “I believe so, Alexander.”
Marlowe looked ahead at the two girls.
“What lies ahead will not have a happy ending, my friend. I believe what I must do next is going to require all that I have left.”
Mograli thought about that for a moment.
“I was right,” he finally spoke.
Marlowe looked at him strangely.
“Right? Right about what?”
Mograli smiled. “The herbs were potent enough.”
*
Armon moved out ahead of the legion.
Their footfalls were silent as they approached the wall en masse. The white sand whistled with winds. The wall had lost its luster. This realization was not beyond the assassin.
He wondered as to its meaning.
The corporal moved alongside Armon.
He, like many of the men, had abandoned their helmets and gear. Instead, they were clothed in the duller colors of their underneath fatigues. Light chest and leg armor made them more maneuverable.
Armon did not object.
“How many are there, sir?” he asked in a hushed tone.
The assassin watched the open gate of the wall. It hung loosely, crying with the wind as the hinges were in desperate need of repair. “I saw only women and children.”
The corporal looked at him. There was objection in his eyes. “We are going to murder women and children in the night? Couldn’t we bypass the village?”
Armon looked at him, his voice sharp. “Don’t be a fool. Marlowe passed this way. He obviously alerted them to our presence. They have set a trap for us. The women and children were a charade for any scouts.”
The corporal nodded slowly. His blue eyes were of such a light color that in
the night they appeared transparent. “I see. I did not think we would have to kill women and children.”
Armon flashed him a devil’s grin. “To acquire Marlowe, I would kill every child and woman in this village; even if it had not been a trap.”
The corporal closed his mouth.
The muscles of his jaw flexed angrily.
Armon saw the man’s pain. “We are at the wall. No more talking. Fall back to your men.” Armon caught the man by the shoulder as he turned to leave. “Do not fail me.”
The man nodded. His face was hard as he disappeared back into the night. Armon breathed in, holding it for a moment as he slipped underneath the arch.
*
Sephan looked over at Holarian.
Both men held long spears, machete-like blades sheathed at their waists. The inner wall of Shadowfall was made of dilapidated steel. Though thinner than the Wall of Shadows, it would hold up to ionic fire.
Men and women, spears and blades ready, were lined shoulder to shoulder along the inner wall. More were behind the first set of houses near the entrance to Shadowfall. Archers with steelhead arrows waited atop the houses.
The Elder moved from the cover of the wall, drawing a deep breath. Holarian grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”
Sephan looked at him grimly.
“I must greet this man.”
The sentry shook his head. “No, sir. If he is as bold as Marlowe said, then such a conversation may prove to be your undoing.”
Sephan smiled broadly. “I do not lie, Holarian.”
Holarian hung his head. “Think of your daughter, sir. Do you wish her to return to her village fatherless?”
“I told Marlowe that if the man came alone and without violence that I would tell him west and let him leave. I cannot kill this man without knowing his intent. My honor will not allow it, Holarian.”
The sentry opened his mouth, but shut it quickly.
He nodded.
Sephan patted him on the shoulder with a smile. Moving out into the center of the square, he nodded to his townspeople––to his family.
They saw in him strength.
He would not fail them.
*
Armon, clothed in black, moved along the path with fluid movements. He crouched as he crested the last of the hills and saw a man standing brazenly at the center of the village square.
The man was smiling.
Motioning to the corporal to come forward, he waved his hand. “Sir?” he spoke tight-lipped, the assassin’s words not so soon forgotten.
Pointing toward the man at the center of the village, he smiled. “I want you to go talk to that man. Find out where all his people are.”
The corporal looked at him, his eyes steely, lips pursed.
“That is suicide, if this is a trap, sir.”
Armon waved a hand. “You have your legion behind you. They will be watching your every move. You have nothing to fear.”
The man looked behind Armon at the heavy, tired faces of his legion. In point of fact, there was something to worry about. “What if it is an ambush to draw a senior officer in?”
Armon’s smiled faded. His eyes sparkled with silver. “Better you than me.” The solider did not move. The assassin’s next words were venomous. “Now, soldier. That is an order.”
The corporal lowered his head and stood. He replaced his weapon around his back, straightening his fatigues as he took a step out into the open. Moving toward the village, he was struck by the heavy noise of his heart in his chest.
His thoughts raced uncontrollably.
The man stood at the center of the village, his arms draped over one another. There was a smile on his face. Was it the smile of one ready to spring a trap, or one that saw his prey coming to him foolishly?
The corporal cleared his throat.
“Citizen,” he announced and then faltered. Where these people citizens of Orion? Surely beyond the outer wall of Orion there was no knowledge of the sprawling city. The corporal stopped a few steps from the inner wall of the city.
“Welcome to Shadowfall,” spoke Sephan clearly, his accent noticeable. The corporal took another step closer to the open entrance of the village. He looked around at the ruined buildings.
Another Orionian saw the impossible.
This had been a city.
“What is this place?” he marveled.
Sephan took another step closer to the soldier. As he neared, the height difference became obvious. “The village of Shadowfall is a village of peace, traveler.”
The corporal swallowed.
The man’s easy manner was suspicious. The solider stepped forward, summoning his commanding voice. “As an officer of OrionCorps, I am obligated to report to you that I am in pursuit of a fugitive. My regiment is pursuing a man by the name of Alexander Marlowe.”
Sephan nodded. “I know this man.”
The corporal felt his heart leap. The assassin had been right. Marlowe had passed through this city. “Does he remain in Shadowfall?”
Sephan ignored his question, pacing sideways. “Are you the man who he feared would come to this village? Burn it to the ground? Kill every man, woman, and child?”
The corporal was aghast. “I would never burn your village to the ground. I only seek information.”
The smile dissipated.
Sephan looked at him seriously. “I am a man of my word, soldier. I will point you in the direction of the man you pursue, but I fear that you may not wish to find him. He has become a powerful man, a dangerous man.”
“I have been ordered to pursue him,” answered the corporal, stepping forward.
The Elder of Shadowfall held up a hand. “Please come no farther. I do not sense in you evil, the evil that Alexander Marlowe had warned us of. I tell you that death waits for you and your people inside this village. Return to your leader. Tell him to move on.”
The corporal shuffled his feet, his fear dissolved into uncertainty. “I do not wish violence. Please just tell me the direction he has traveled.”
Sephan looked past the corporal. The flash of soldier fatigues had caught his eye beyond the inner wall, just inside the hills. “Your men are inside the wall, just a short distance from here, are they not?”
The corporal swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Sephan moved closer yet. “I do not believe that your men will walk away. I trust your word, but you do not lead your men, do you?”
He shook his head.
The assassin led them.
“Who leads you?”
“I do not know his name,” replied the corporal, feeling drained––tired.
Sephan smiled, he was at the entrance now. He placed a hand on the corporal’s shoulder. Slightly off-center, they were not completely in front of each other. “I do not wish your death.”
The corporal smiled, his blue eyes were glassy.
“My name is David.”
Sephan nodded. “I do not wish to see you die here today, David. I grant you passage. You may walk through our village and beyond, but those who have come with you are hostile. They wish to hurt my people. This I cannot allow.”
David nodded grimly.
“I, too, believe that they wish to cause harm.”
Sephan’s smile faded.
Grim lines carved his face.
“I think they meant for you not to return…”
The shot was sudden.
Exploding through David’s back, the orange burst filled Sephan’s vision. White streams of energy swirled about him as it scorched flesh and bone. The Elder pulled the left side of his body away from the blast as best he could.
Heat overwhelmed his shoulder and hand.
He fell with David.
Gunfire exploded overhead, ricocheting off the walls. Rebounding back into the sands, it scorched white earth. The people of Shadowfall launched a volley of arrows, the steel whistling through the air as it rose and dove like a thousand birds of prey.
Sephan smelled the burnt fl
esh.
David’s bright blue eyes were filled with tears. Blackened soot covered his face. His lip trembled, glossy and covered in saliva. The burn through his chest was clean, charred. Sephan pressed his hand to the soldier’s chest.
“Be at peace, David of Orion.”
David opened his mouth, his lips quivering. His chest heaved; his eyes looked one way and then the other. He felt a wail building in his chest. Perhaps, the last feeling he would ever have.
“I….” he whispered, his voice faltering, stuttering.
Sephan wiped the tears from the man’s cheek, pressing his other hand against his forehead. Cradling his neck, he sung softly. The man opened and closed his mouth several more times before the breath left his lungs for the last time. As the Elder laid the man upon the ground, he was struck by a simple question, a strange observation: Why did this man, David of Orion, look exactly like Marlowe?
XXX
M
arlowe purposely led them around the grotesque sight of the fallen Mimic. The desert winds had cooled in the night, as they often did. The gunfire rang out, even across the great distances they had traveled.
None turned, for the sight of it would cause them unnecessary grief. Each had chosen to leave their homes to help Marlowe. The shaman had fallen into step with Marlowe, the girls having remained a few steps behind.
Their hushed words were a comfort to him.
“It sounds as if Sephan was not able to reason with them,” spoke Marlowe, his eyes watching the horizon, the emergence of the peaks not far in the west.
The shaman stared forward as well.
“Sephan will not see his people enslaved.”
Marlowe nodded sadly. “I saw that in his eyes. Your people are brave, all of you. To help me on this journey took great courage, Mograli. And great courage from the young Elder’s daughter.”
Mograli’s smile was slight.
“She does not come for your journey.”
“I’d figured as much.” Pointing at the rising peaks in the distance, he spoke again. “Will it take us long to reach the ocean? To cross those mountains?”