by Aaron Hodges
Shuddering, Romaine pushed aside the memories and drew another breath. It hurt a little less this time. The scent of burning coal carried to his nostrils and he realised someone had lit the brazier. Exhaling, he forced his eyes open once more and struggled to sit up. The ache in his chest turned to a lancing pain, but if he didn’t move too quickly it seemed manageable.
He gritted his teeth as his head swam and stars flashed across his eyes. When his vision finally cleared, Romaine was surprised to find himself in his own cabin. His wounds couldn’t be as bad as he’d feared if they hadn’t kept him in the infirmary. Then again, he supposed a medic could do little for broken ribs or severed hands.
His gaze passed over the cabin, though the space was hardly worthy of the name. His bed was pressed up against the wall opposite the entrance, and there were few furnishings besides the brazier in the corner and the clothes chest tucked against the wall. He didn’t need anything more than that, between taking his meals in the soldiers’ mess hall and the occasional visit to the communal bathhouse. Indeed, the cabin was more than a simple soldier could normally expect. While those of other nations were bunked in barracks of fifty, the last soldier of Calafe slept alone.
Grief washed over him like a wave, threatening to overwhelm him. He had set off on an expedition in search of hidden ruins, of a place abandoned by the Gods. Tunnels dug beneath the earth, sealed away for millennium, their secrets with them. But the site was in enemy territory, in lands that had once belonged to his people. Romaine hadn’t expected to return. He had gone to protect the men and women he had mentored, Perfugian recruits who had stood little chance of surviving without his guidance.
How fitting, then, that he should now find himself back here. Alone.
Romaine scrunched his eyes closed, struggling to contain the pain, the sorrow. He had failed them all—Lukys, Travis, Dale and so many others—failed to protect them, to save them. Now they were all gone, slain by the Tangata, their corpses left for the scavengers.
Was he cursed to forever suffer this grief, to watch everyone he cared for perish, while he lived on? Even his family had been taken from him, so long ago now, yet the wound still felt fresh. The memory of his son lying dead in the snow, of his wife’s silent corpse, haunted him to this day. They too he had lost to the Tangata, the first of many he had loved. After a decade of war, Romaine was tired of counting the bodies.
At least there was still Cara.
Regret touched him as he thought of the young woman. She might have saved the others, might have saved them all, if only he had not been so blinded by his hatred. He’d thought her a spy, one of the Tangata that had learned to camouflage itself amongst humanity. They’d all seen her eyes in those awful tunnels, seen the grey madness of the enemy lurking there.
But they’d been wrong.
Cara wasn’t Tangata at all, nor even human. She was a God.
Driven by desperation, she had revealed herself on the banks of the Illmoor River. The sight of her soaring across the muddied waters, auburn wings spread wide, was one Romaine would remember until his dying days.
He could hardly believe it now, that one of the Divine had hidden amongst them, had spoken with them, befriended them. The Gods were mythical beings, their true nature long since hidden beneath rumour and legend. To think of one living amongst humanity…it changed everything.
Yet even Cara’s power was limited. Alone, she had fought to rescue their friends. But it had not been enough to stem the tide of Tangata that had swarmed across the banks of the Illmoor. In the end she had been forced to retreat, able only to save the Queen’s Archivist, Erika. The others…
Romaine scrunched his eyes closed and levered himself to his feet. The agony returned to his chest, but it seemed preferable now to the pain of his loss. He staggered to the trunk at the foot of his bed and retrieved a fresh tunic—the one he still wore was stained with blood. It was a struggle to pull it over his broad shoulders with only one hand. So strange, how he could feel it still. If he closed his eyes, he could swear his fingers were there...
But no, better he face reality. There was only the ruined stump now. The thought filled him with dread, and his gaze was drawn to the great-axe that had been left propped against the head of his bed. He reached for it, then paused.
The axe was a two-handed weapon. Desperation had allowed him to wield it against the Tangata in defence of his friends, but even then, only by luck had he survived the encounter. No, it would be the height of arrogance to continue carrying it into battle. His hand returned to his side and he clenched it into a fist. He would need to find a new weapon.
In the meantime, Romaine turned his attention back to dressing himself, pulling on a fresh pair of pants and a belt. The simple manoeuvre left him panting, the pain in his chest robbing him of strength. But he managed it before slumping back to the bed, gasping.
The murmur of voices came from outside as the citizens of Fogmore woke to begin their days, and the squeak of boards from overhead announced that his neighbours had risen. Romaine let out a sigh, struggling to beat back the despair. What was the point of leaving his bed? If not for Erika, he would have lain down and died back on the banks of the Illmoor. He would have finally been free. Now he wondered what madness had taken him, that he had listened to the woman.
She had claimed to be the daughter of his fallen king. Even now, the thought made his stomach flutter. The Calafe king had been slain in the first battle against the Tangata, when he’d led an allied army deep into enemy territory. It was said the enemy had taken him by surprise, decimating the Calafe forces before the Flumeeren warrior queen had come to their aid. That had been the beginning of the end for his people.
Maybe that was why, through the pain and fatigue, he had accepted Erika’s claim so readily. But in the cold light of day, her assertion seemed farcical.
The voices in the street were growing louder, and letting out a sigh, Romaine rose from the bed. He took a moment to gather his strength, then staggered to the door and slipped into his boots. Deciding the laces were beyond him, he pushed out into the street instead. A cold breeze greeted him, a reminder that winter had not yet released its grip on the land. Ducking his head beneath the doorway, Romaine stepped outside.
A light snow was falling, though the passage of people had already crushed it into the muddy streets. Clouds hid the sun above, but from the faintness of the light Romaine knew it still to be early. He pulled the door closed and started down the three wooden steps that led to street level, taking care not to slip on any ice and injure himself further.
“Romaine!”
He had just placed his boot into the puddle at the bottom of the stairs when a voice cut through the crowd. A moment later, he glimpsed the scout Lorene moving towards him down the street. The man had not accompanied the Perfugians south with Romaine, but he was probably one of the few Flumeeren soldiers he knew beyond a casual acquaintance.
Relieved for an excuse to rest, Romaine sat on the bottom stair. More than a few of the passersby flashed him strange looks as they went about their business, but Romaine ignored them, his attention instead on the approaching scout. There was a sense of controlled urgency about the man. He was puffing by the time he stopped in front of Romaine and his cheeks were a bright red, as though he’d run the entire way. Even so, he still had time to frown as he looked Romaine up and down.
“The medics said you’d be in bed for a week,” Lorene commented.
“Fast healer, lad,” Romaine grunted, though his head was swimming. “Something you came to tell me?”
Lorene hesitated, seeming to doubt himself for a moment. He swallowed, jaw tight. It obviously wasn’t good news. Romaine wondered what fresh agony the world had in store for him.
“It’s Cara…ah, the Goddess,” Lorene croaked. “She’s gone. We think the Archivist took her.”
2
The Fugitive
Erika sat in the front of the sailboat, watching how the mist curled around the bow, ho
w it clung to the swirling waters. The white tendrils hid the night sky, concealed everything but for a sparse foot around them. It also hid them. Just as well—with their pursuers out in force, the fugitives needed every advantage they could get. Even now she could hear the voices on the river, the distant calls of the Flumeeren hunters, seeking their prize.
They would not have her.
It was the second night since she had fled the town of Fogmore, aided by the mysterious Gemaho spy. Her gaze was drawn to where the woman sat at the back of the boat, hand on the tiller. Erika didn’t even know the woman’s name—only that she’d been sent by the King of Gemaho. Why the man would want to help her, Erika couldn’t understand, though…
Her eyes fell to the vessel’s third occupant: the woman lying chained at Erika’s feet. At first glance, Cara might have been mistaken for human. Copper hair hung across her shoulders and the amber eyes that looked out from her narrow face were far from the Tangatan grey. Her clothes were plain, grey and red, borrowed from their Flumeeren hosts.
But even in the darkness, there was one stark difference between Cara and a human, one that marked her as one of the Divine.
Wings.
Swathed in auburn feathers, they sprouted from somewhere near the middle of Cara’s back. At this moment they were furled around the young Goddess and bound in chains for good measure—along with her arms and legs. Thankfully, they seemed to be enough to hold her. Erika didn’t want to find out what the Goddess would do to them if she ever got free.
Shivering, Erika’s gaze returned to the mists, and she found herself wondering what she was doing there. She was an Archivist, a student of history, of the Gods that had vanished after casting down the world. She should be asking Cara questions, seeking answers to the mysteries that had plagued humanity for centuries. Not locking her up, not making her their enemy.
Yet, what choice did she have?
She had lost everything in that disastrous venture south: her reputation, her position in the Flumeeren court, her chance to stand side by side with the nobility. All because of General Curtis’s betrayal, because he had sent her Perfugian recruits instead of real soldiers. The queen had promised penance should she fail. Erika wasn’t about to allow the general’s incompetence to cost her life. So when the King of Gemaho had offered her a lifeline, she had grasped it with both hands.
She would do whatever it took to survive.
Even if that meant betraying a God.
Erika’s insides twisted and her gaze was drawn back to Cara. She winced as their eyes met and she saw the rage flickering in those amber depths. That look promised revenge. Instinctively, Erika found herself flexing her right hand, on which she wore a gauntlet crafted from impossibly fine wires of an unknown metal. It had fused to her very flesh when she’d first put it on and she had been unable to remove it since.
Light blossomed around her knuckles as she clenched the fist. The gauntlet held incredible magic, power enough to strike down the Gods themselves. It was with this that she had captured Cara, taking the Goddess by surprise. A violent, unholy act.
Just a few weeks ago, it would have been unthinkable to Erika. Yet she had done it with hardly a thought. Now she sat sailing through the night, fleeing the kingdom that had supported her for over a decade, intent on delivering the Goddess into the hands of their enemies. Never mind that the Gemaho King had tried to take her life just a few weeks before, or that Cara had rescued her from the Tangata, that she had been Erika’s friend.
A shudder racked her and she allowed her hand to relax. The light died and she found herself looking into Cara’s eyes again. Now she saw the pain beneath the Goddess’s anger. All of Erika’s excuses, all her justifications, withered beneath that look.
Finally she looked away, unable to meet the accusation in her former friend’s eyes. If the Goddess wanted to live amongst humans, it was time she was taught this lesson. It was one Erika had learnt well as a child. Don’t trust, don’t allow others to get close. To do so was to invite betrayal. Others were only worth as much as they could benefit you.
And Cara…well, she was the key to a secret world, to powers unknown, ones even greater than the gauntlet. First though, they had to escape the lands of Flumeer.
“Get down,” a voice hissed from the back of the boat.
Immediately, Erika slipped from the bench and crouched alongside Cara. Behind, her companion ducked beneath the gunwale. In the darkness, Erika could see little of the woman from Gemaho. Whispers carried through the night and Erika squinted, trying to pierce the mist, seeking the source. An orange light flickered into life and the breath caught in her throat. Another ship was drifting somewhere out on the river.
Fortunately they had kept to the northern shore. The hunters loomed farther out in the currents, though as Erika watched, the light from their ship seemed to grow. She looked back as their boat shifted direction. Her silent companion had her hands on the tiller, directing them towards the shore. There was a thud as the bow pressed up onto the mud, barely audible over the whispers of the breeze.
Erika held her breath, eyes on the glow of their pursuers. It continued to grow closer. Silently, she tightened her fist, preparing to summon the power. Then she hesitated, glancing at the gauntlet, wondering. She had come to rely on its magic since finding it in that hidden chamber, come to thrill in its power.
Erika’s heart thundered in her ears as she looked on her metallic fist. She had made so many mistakes these past weeks, had hurt so many people. Shouldn’t she care? A tremor shook her as she recalled the creatures they had encountered in the caverns beneath the earth, driven mad by the magic they had stolen. Could the same be happening to her?
The gauntlet drew on her own energies—she had discovered as much on the banks of the Illmoor, when its exertion had all but drained away her life force. But she would have known if it was changing her, if it was making her like…those things in the dark. Wouldn’t she?
Releasing a breath Erika hadn’t realised she’d been holding, she unclenched her fist, allowing the light to die. What was she thinking, anyway? The gauntlet’s magic was only useful in close quarters. Her hunters would know that—their archers would pepper her with arrows long before they came close enough for Erika to use the power.
“Make sure the girl is quiet.”
Erika frowned as the spy’s words drew her back to the present. Her companion never addressed Cara as a God. It seemed blasphemous, though of course, the Gemaho were not known to be a Godly people. Still, with the wings just…hanging there, Erika would have thought they’d be enough to convert the most studious of disbelievers.
Even so, she shifted closer to Cara and made sure her gag was firmly in place. The Goddess squawked in protest, but the cloth muffled the sound and it was easily lost in the lapping of water against the hull. Turning back to the spy, Erika nodded that their…passenger was secure…
…and noticed the light still growing brighter in the mist beyond their white sail. Her heart thudded painfully against her chest and instinctively she clutched a hand to Cara’s shoulder, pressing gently. Erika’s own strength could never harm the Goddess, but with her gauntleted fist, the threat was clear and Cara ceased to struggle.
At the rear of the boat, her companion cursed softy and reached into a pack. Erika expected the spy to draw out a weapon, but instead her hand emerged with a smooth sphere of glass. Silently, the woman held up the object, a frown wrinkling the plain features of her face.
Erika’s gaze was drawn to the sphere as it began to glow. A cry started in her throat—the light would give them away—but immediately the glow faded, becoming muted, the orb itself fuzzy and indistinct. Abruptly, it vanished—and the woman’s hand with it, as though they had been drawn into some other dimension. The spy did not react, only raised a finger to her lips as the effect expanded outwards, swallowing her arm, then the woman herself entirely.
Clutching at the Goddess lying alongside her, Erika fought not to scream as the strange
magic crept across the boat towards them. Within seconds, half the boat had been consumed, until finally she could take it no longer. Stifling a cry, Erika scrambled up, preparing to throw herself over the side before the magic claimed her as well.
“Don’t move,” a voice hissed from the emptiness where the spy had crouched a moment earlier.
Erika’s mouth fell open and she froze. The magic reached her before she could recover from the confusion, and she watched in horrified fascination as it swallowed her leg. Beside her, Cara blinked out, even as the power continued up her waist, her chest, her throat. Silently she sucked in a breath, as though that might save her from being wiped from existence…
Darkness followed as the magic enclosed her, and for a moment Erika thought it was over, that the power had claimed her. Then the black fell away, and she found herself clinging again to the sides of the sailboat. Cara lay alongside her, while the spy sat nearby, finger still to her lips.
Erika’s racing heart began to subside. She looked around, seeking their pursuers, and found herself surrounded by a bubble of light. It was as though they had been encased in a snow globe, the plaything of some giant. The outside world could barely be seen through its glow. Surely their pursuers must see it?
But recalling again how the spy and boat had vanished before her eyes, Erika realised that the globe had simply rendered them invisible from without. Her gaze was drawn to the orb still clutched in the hands of her companion. Its crystal surface was aglow, seemingly a reflection of the magic that surrounded them. Somehow, this object concealed them.
They sat in silence, listening for the telltale whispers of their pursuers. Breathing deeply, Erika strained her ears for hint of their approach, for sign they had been spotted. The acrid scent of burning pitch carried to her nose and she caught the occasional whisper, of voices on the breeze, the squeak of boards beneath boots, waves lapping upon a wooden hull, but the hunters came no closer, and slowly even those soft noises faded away.