She thought of the time before, when she’d convinced herself his loss would stem itself in a year, maybe two, and she’d be there at its end, waiting to pluck what she could from the grasp of his grief. But that time never came, and her inadequacy had driven her away. He’d told her to keep in contact—told her to keep in contact—then he didn’t look for her after she left. So she too stopped keeping up with him, and they lost contact altogether. The last she’d heard, he’d moved to Keep, but even if he still lived there, trying to find him in the world’s capital bordered on hopeless.
Kendra picked at a nail while she stared at the screen that spanned half the wall over her hearth. Lines spread across its face; a few near its lower-left corner flashed black. Gods, how tedious. Not even her trade could distract her right now.
Her cooler’s contents made a sparse dinner—A snack, whatever. Lunch meat, deli spread, half a pecan pie. No bread for a sandwich. She poured the crumbs from a bag of chips over it all. Her plate served as a blunt reminder of her dependence on commerce with the townspeople, and she wondered where her self-reliance had hidden itself through the years.
Nothing in or out until we find him, she remembered saying to Reight the night before, when she’d sealed the house.
But Reight had told her, “Coming from a woman who eats more take-out than anyone I know, yes, this should be easy.” He’d walked into his room and kept to himself through the night. Kendra had stayed up late, knowing Reight would find Hollowman before she fell asleep, that she’d be able to tell Russ what she needed to. If nothing else, the Grand Master could have loosened the knot that had tightened in her stomach since the day before.
The hell gate came to her mind again, the immensity of its power, and she looked toward her front door again, almost expecting it to rattle. She picked at the food on her plate, mainly the chip-covered pie. The dirty woman flashed in front of her, a pale face in the darkness. Sulfur and smoke still filled her head, sour enough to turn her stomach. Her heart raced, and she dropped the piece of meat she held in her fingers. She didn’t want this. No one wanted this. All her hope pulled at what might be impossible.
If she couldn’t find him, she’d have to tell someone what she’d seen, but no one would want to believe a gumshoe living on the edges of society. She could see it now: ‘Sensationalist sleuth seeks spotlight in scandalous slander of the scepter’s strength.’ Or something similar.
Kendra picked at a piece of food stuck between her molars with her tongue while her mind stalled. She didn’t know how to—what to—
“Ma’am,” Reight said in her ear, “This—thing—wants to speak with you.”
“Put it through.”
“… I’m aware of who you are already,” another voice said, “now put me through to your master.”
“Speaking.”
“Excellent,” said the other. He spoke with a paced clip. “I might suggest you get your urlan some protocol classes. Bit of a tongue on him.”
“Who are you?” Kendra asked.
“Ah, please excuse the rudeness, ma’am, as I assure you mine is incidental. My name is Sieku, and I have a special interest in your urlan’s, and therefore your, search.”
“The fuck why?”
“It specifically coincides with a parameter my master, for reasons of his own, wanted no one making progress on until a point in time he saw fit.”
“Who are they?” Kendra said, trying to mask the urgency in her voice. “Your master.”
“Trent Geno.”
Russ hadn’t called himself that before. “May I speak with him?”
“He’s currently unavailable.”
“Doing what?” Desperate angst molded her voice.
The line remained silent for two seconds. “He’s in transit, ma’am.”
“To where?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t or won’t? What can you tell me, then, if anything?” Though she had made the jump already, she wanted to hear the urlan’s answer. “And what in the hells does he have to do with Hollowman?”
“Mr. Geno has not made me privy to that. I offer my sincerest apologies for any inconveniences this has caused or causes you.”
“Mr. Geno. That’s what he calls himself now?”
“That’s what he’s always called himself, as far as I’m aware. And his departure from Keep triggered some relaxations in my securities. You may now continue your search for—Hollowman—unhindered.”
“Reight, do you have his location?”
“I do, ma’am,” her urlan said. “Wasn’t too far of a logical leap.”
“I’m—I’m not trying to cloak my location anymore,” Sieku said. “Your urlan isn’t as impressive”—
“Adjust,” said Reight, his voice overpowering the call. “You’re in Adjust, motherfucker, and that’s where my signal kept getting blocked. I know you know where Hollowman is, and if I have to get into your infrastructure myself, I swear to you with the gods as my wit”—
“Ah,” said Sieku. The line silenced a few seconds. “That’s unfortunate. He seems to have cut out.”
“Gods damn it!” Reight shouted from the other room.
“If you know where Trent Geno is,” said Kendra, “and Trent is who I think he is, you know who and where Hollowman is. If he’s left Keep, I need to know where he’s heading.”
“Ma’am, those are analytical escalations I’m not willing to make,” said Sieku. “I’ve told you what I called to tell you. May the Light illuminate your path.”
Kendra hung her head, breathed for what felt like the first time all day, and slumped over the bar as the call terminated. If nothing else, the stagnant hope that Russ had left to find her pushed through her gloom, perhaps under a divine omen if not just stupid chance. He lived.
Of course he’s still alive, she thought. You would know if something happened.
A pile of turnips behind her settled, and a few tumbled down the pile’s slope onto the floor. One rolled and tapped against her bare foot.
“Ma’am,” Reight said from the other room, his voice suffused with ire. “You should see this.”
In his room, Reight had crawled up a wall, where he sat on a mounted perch made of reclaimed wood. He slumped so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling, and his feet dangled in the air below him. He’d tuned his main monitor in to a press forum. A royal seal hung behind an otherwise empty stage.
“What is this?” Kendra asked.
“Don’t know. Arnin Locality said it was important, and I’m too—bothered—to keep working right now anyway.”
“Citizens,” a woman said. “Thank you for tuning in to this unscheduled broadcast.”
“Here she goes again,” said Reight.
“We appreciate you taking time out of your day”—
“That’s different.” The urlan watched, his face unreadable in the dark room.
“The scepter has asked that local stations replay this announcement for the rest of the night. It will preempt any other program. We apologize for the inconvenience.” The voice paused for five seconds. “And now, at his leisure, His Majesty, Leader of the United Peoples, the King.”
Russ had left Keep, and now the king walked from stage right to address the world. Kendra’s mind connected the parts before he spoke.
His Majesty settled himself at centerstage and templed his hands. “Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for joining me this evening for this unscheduled statement. Someone of Authority has recently made me aware of grisly happenings in our world, and I feel it’s my responsibility to share those with you now.”
Kendra watched while the king explained, her mind racing ahead of what he said.
3
Trent swung his hammer over his head. The tail ignited and blasted its heft at Grenn, who grunted when the blow stuck his greave. The young Karlian stumbled to his right and regained his balance, but Trent sped toward him and bunted him to the ground.
“You’re slow.” Trent set his hammer on Grenn’s
chest. “There’s no excuse for it.”
Grenn panted under the weight. “Maybe,” he said in between breaths as he pushed at Trent’s weapon, “if you’d give me warning before you attacked”—
“Think demons are so kind?” Trent waited for an answer Grenn didn’t give, then lifted his mace from the young man’s chest. “Again.”
Grenn pounded the ground with both fists and stood in a fluid motion. He picked up his mace and spun it around his neck and arms. Trent watched with marginal interest. Karhaal had trained such showmanship out of his generation, and he hoped Grenn wouldn’t prove a necessary indication of his own. Apparently satisfied, Grenn caught his hammer in two fists and charged.
Trent stood by. Seconds passed before the younger Karlian reached him, and when he did, Trent dodged and formed his attack as before. Grenn ended up on his back the same. “I beat you. Why?”
Grenn pushed against Trent’s hammer. “Don’t—know.”
“Yes, you do.” Trent lifted his weapon and turned.
Grenn sat up for the eighth time. Their skirmish had begun as a simple conversation two-hundred miles before they stopped and set up camp in a clearing on the northeastern edge of Ovilsby Forest. They’d kept to the country, riding past the mesas of New Winstone and through the prairies of the Thirian Plains—vast stretches of grass where so many species of plant grew that flower-doctors of old hadn’t been able to catalogue them all.
Raverord had been grateful for the stop. Twice older than Lorithena and proud of it, the albune still knew his limits. They’d come nowhere close to them, but his age had given him a want for comfort, and any burden weighed quickly on his nerves. The beasts had groomed themselves and cleaned their paws before they’d spun and warmed a spot of brown grass. Just a hundred yards to the southeast, an immense lake—though hardly a puddle compared to the loch down in South Borliee—steamed for the night’s cool. Great elk grazed on its other side miles from them. This far north, the glade-trees stood naked and still, their vigor welled away against the cold for another couple months.
“So what is it?” Grenn asked. “Your hammer?”
Trent shook his head. “Uniquity is just a hammer. I could fight you without it.”
“Then you being Grand Master. Jeom was majesty in combat. Does Karli give you—I don’t know—powers?”
“Nothing so esoteric, Grenn. My title doesn’t give me special abilities. I have no more to work with than you do.”
“Then why won’t you just tell me? If I have it already, tell me how to unlock it—so we can move on from this exercise.”
“Because figuring somethin out for your damn self is a lot more important than just being told.” Despite their relationship, Trent felt a sliver of enmity for the young man. “You’re the one who wanted to see what this was like. We can stop whenever you want.”
“Then just—just give me a second.”
Trent waited while Grenn stared at the ground, and as the seconds passed, the young man’s animus melted to antipathy.
“Like you said, then, fight me without your hammer.” Grenn stood. “Let me see if I can even hit you.”
“Sure.” Trent let go of his weapon’s handle.
Grenn spun his mace once over his hand and charged. Quicker than before, he closed the distance between them in less than a second and ran past Trent, who sidestepped a clothesline swing. Trent turned, leaned left to avoid a downward blow, and dodged right to avoid the next swipe, after which he hopped backwards and bent the same way to keep himself safe from Grenn’s reach.
The young Karlian swung his hammer overhead, and the rocket blasted its load toward Trent’s helmet. The Grand Master stepped against the tree to his right, leapt over the younger Karlian, and landed behind him as the blow hit the grass. His armor actuated at his thought, and Trent jabbed at the middle of Grenn’s back with the butt of his right hand. The younger man fell to his knees and raised a hand as he doubled over.
Trent walked around him.
“Goddess,” Grenn said between breaths. “You’re just too fucking fast.” He lowered his helmet and gulped air. His brow had drenched with sweat.
“Really? No faster than a demon. Maybe slower now. Who knows what’s waitin for us once this War really starts.”
“If they’re—any faster than you, I don’t think many of us’ll make it.”
Trent gripped Uniquity. “Is this how they taught you to fight?” He removed what accusation he could from his question.
Grenn nodded, unabashed. “Yeah, it’s how I learned.”
Fuck. “Stop trying to copy me, then.”
Grenn still struggled to breathe, but he stood and caught himself against his unbalance and grabbed at his hammer.
“No,” said Trent. “Just defend this time.”
Grenn nodded, and his helmet raised. “Try not to”—
Trent surged forward, and his weapon rocketed toward his charge’s body. Grenn widened his stance and raised his left arm to protect against the swing. A deafening series of strikes rang through the clearing as the two collided. Grenn blocked or planted a foot to absorb Trent’s pummeling, but after only a dozen blows, he swayed, staggered, and raised his hand.
“Grenn?” Trent said after a moment and tapped the young man’s chest with his hammer. He lowered his helmet as Grenn fell backwards. Silence returned to their spot.
“I’m fine,” Grenn said. “Just—just leave me here a while.”
Trent did, and from the top of a saddlebag, he grabbed a portable stove and a tent, which set about erecting itself when he chose where he wanted it done. The fire ignited, and a few minutes later, his breath no longer misted. He tucked into a ration, amused to see a note with the salted pumpkin crackers and roasted pumpkin seeds that read, ‘From his Majesty’s royal pantry.’
The crackers hadn’t impressed him the night before, but their savory crunch reminded him of the life he’d cultivated over the years. Nostalgia would make it easier to forget now, but reality had hardly led him to the guilt-free self-banishment for which he’d pined.
His terminal vibrated on the ground next to him. On it, a message from Sieku read, ‘The king just finished his announcement. The person looking for you, a Kendra, seemed more than interested.’
A weight settled upon his mind while he ate: he imagined people across the world recoiling in disbelief. No one had really believed the Order about M’keth’s threat until that first night in Redater. Some would bury themselves in ambivalence, and most, once the War got going, would lose themselves to terror. Trent feared it. The last had only ended twenty years ago, but people forget so easily.
He typed a response to the message’s second half: ‘Kendra? Are you sure?’ His device couldn’t catch a signal to send, so he entered the response into a queue.
“Can you pass me something?” Grenn said. He sat up and lowered his helmet. “Anything to drink.”
Trent rummaged through the nearest saddle bag. A warning label peeked at him on more than a few of the packages they carried. He tried to discern the markings, but his familiarity with freight regulations only extended to foodstuffs. The contents resettled from his prodding, and he tossed a bottle of water to Grenn, who choked on its upended sustenance.
Grenn covered his mouth with the back of his hand while he sputtered. He recovered after few seconds and coughed. “I was thinking. We should do this every night. Training—only if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Think you’re gonna get faster?” Trent asked, returning to his place by the oven. Its yellow flame danced as the sun retreated from the day.
“Figure I can’t get slower. And with a—with another War here, the last twenty years has left a whole generation of Karlians essentially untrained. Namely me.”
Trent crunched another cracker. “If I’d been there, that wouldn’t have happened. I’d come up with a whole plan with Verrusen, one where Karlians would never stop hard-training, but we took it even further. It’s a shame it never got enacted. You’d be able fight
better than I can.”
“Well, it sure as hells better not be too late,” said Grenn, fiery as a fledging’s maw. “Goddess, I can’t believe how different it is. It’s unfair.”
Trent thought on it, but the next day and what his return meant—to himself, the Order, the world—plagued his mind. In only seconds, he got too far ahead of himself. “We’ll see.”
“All right,” Grenn said, though he didn’t sound satisfied, “I’m tired as shit.” He turned over, still in his armor. “Hope I can still walk tomorrow.”
“You’ll be fine. Mind if I give you somethin to sleep on?”
Grenn raised his arm to signal he listened. “I await your counsel.”
“The armor’s designed to aid you, not protect you. Protect yourself, and your armor will help. Don’t rely on it so much.”
Grenn didn’t respond. His arm fell against his body, and his soft snores crept through the clearing. Crickets chirped around them, and birds called to each other from farther away as the evening bled through dusk.
Trent entered his tent later that night and meditated, rolling the soul stone in his left hand. A presence called to him, watched him from far away, pulled his mind against its focus like an itch he couldn’t scratch, but it darted away each time he found it. He traced a rune through the air that burned even through his closed eyes and kept the specter from him. Yet still it watched. The vision of a burning cave came to him, wanton and unwanted. By morning’s twilight, however, it had relented, and Trent meditated in peace until first light.
Trent heard Grenn rise. The young man mumbled to himself about the finer points of playing forward trackbacker on a Liscerring squad as he stumbled away, his boots scuffing brown grass in his haze. He disappeared for seventeen minutes in the frosty predawn, and when he returned, he hummed a song Trent didn’t recognize, interspersing its lyrics with nonsense and da-da-das while he wiped himself down with a washcloth. The disturbance almost annoyed him, but Trent appreciated the nonchalance that Grenn’s morning mutterings added to his internal scene—the tranquility of stubborn ignorance.
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