Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms

by Michael DeSousa

  “Major,” one the patrols spoke again. “Do you need something?”

  “Yes, I do,” Ed said, looking down the yard at Glen flaying his arms in the air at the sentry, Jory Tarz, by the gate. “Make sure he gets home.”

  “Sure thing, sir.” And the two went off after Glen.

  Ed looked around, quiet barracks of sleeping soldiers oblivious of the early war certain to come. His life. All he knew was right here, in the service to the Prince. One moment of weakness, one moment of compassion, and he threw it all away. He could have done it twice; murdered twice. The first time was such an easy thing for him to do, too easy like snapping a twig. He thought about staying, facing up to his charge, saying his piece to deaf ears…and then dying. The worse part would be seeing their facing, the Captains that served him and the troops that strove so hard to keep this all secret. The secret was out now. Sig knew, because of him. Ed…couldn’t face them knowing that. What to do now?

  He stuffed the paper into his pocket before marching back inside his —the commander’s— barrack. “One defeat does not define a war.” He looked at himself in his mirror, wrapped his fingers around the loops of crimson cord around his shoulders and tore them off. He then grabbed his jacket —a thin gray leather coat with black fur trimmings— and paused for a moment to reflect on leaving his one-room home where he’d spent so many years. “I am soldier,” he recited from ‘On Military Leadership.’ “My home is under the stars and on the open plain.” He walked over to his shattered desk, found the book on the floor, and buttoned up the book inside his jacket.

  He then pocketed from his desk, now with a gaping hole filled with glass shards and dripping stale wine, a few military currency vouchers, a couple of warding stones, and a ceremonial —useless— hand-cannon. But being all metal, with his strength, he could at least use it as a blunt weapon.

  Ed stormed back outside, the biting cold nipping at his nose and cheeks. He marched down the yard to the gate with a purposeful stride. What purpose? He didn’t want to think about it. He focused all his attention on the one goal of leaving unnoticed. Then… where else? He would find Gene and do what he could when Sig decides on his response.

  “Going for a walk,” Jory Tarz asked, his brother up on the tower with Leyek. “Temps took a very cold turn tonight.”

  “Yes,” Ed said, his voice as cold as the night.

  “Don’t worry, Major,” Jory said as he went to raise the gate. “I won’t tell anyone you left your house arrest.”

  All Ed could do was nod before marching through. He hunched his shoulders against the cold and stuffed his hands into his pockets for warmth. Ed should head into town first, gather supplies and maybe another heavier coat, but his legs wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop now. The terror would set it, he knew it. So instead, he continued briskly down the road before, at some random point, he turned east into the woods. He grew up in these lands. He knew them. Cross country a day and half to Sat’r? He’d get there by this evening. Find Gene and...just find Gene.

  24

  Celeste Casmarus: The Lord and the Lady

  “I wish Celeste could be here to watch our parent’s pyre—”

  “I know. We still need to find Ragnarok’s Champion before the others. If she only had buried your parent’s Binding Books and relics with them, we wouldn’t have to rely on that Islander trader in Sat’r.”

  “I don’t know why she didn’t. It’s what our parents asked of us.”

  “Your sister can’t be trusted. She swore herself to the Golden Lady, Zandagor. She’s a heretic.”

  “I was a heretic once.”

  “Are you saying you now believe she could be convinced—”

  “No, I’m sorry. Of course not. No, she couldn’t. It’s only…. Here, saying my farewells to my parents. I wish she could see them as they truly are.”

  “Beautiful, aren’t they? Even in death. Even with the flame consuming their flesh, there is still a majesty to them, as if they’re allowing the flame the honor of consuming them. Like us too, if we could only wake up from our dream. This cruel shadow of ourselves. What could we have done to deserve this?”

  “Perhaps it is just our way. A caterpillar metamorphose into a butterfly. We only need to remember how to cocoon ourselves.”

  “Except Ragnarok has proven that is not the case.”

  “And replenish our numbers, too, it seems. Such horror…I’ll never be accustomed to it.”

  “Ha, I know what the others say. Don’t believe that nonsense. I’ve known I’ve always been this, even the name he gave me. No, I am convinced no Well bound deity or asinine necromantic rite can transform someone into that…beautiful creature. Utter Nonsense. We exist as we are without the aid of a god. How or why we fell asleep and mixed with the human race, I don’t know. But that’s why I formed the Cull of Ragnarok, to seek out and separate the wheat from the chaff. Unfortunately, only Ragnarok knows how to wake us up safely, and even then…it’s straining. So I’ll serve him until I learn how to save our people.”

  “And Ryujin? The dragon god those people from the Southern Snows talk about?”

  “If only he was real, but no; I’ve studied it. Those people used to be our servants back when the Nation ruled there. A bastardization of our beliefs. No, we have no god for us among the stars. We need no god.”

  -Conversation between Genevieve Casmarus and Da’Kraven Nalore’Teth of the Cull of Ragnarok

  Sil rushed out of that suffocating room into another suffocating balcony, intending to never see Markus or MaCathy ever again.

  She froze. Eyes snapped onto her, some leered with obvious carnal thoughts twisting their lips while others narrowed their eyes on her, judging her intent with tense hands close to their belts. But with in a few moments, they either deemed her not a threat or not attractive enough for the trouble and returned to their dealings with devils and minions. Fine by her.

  With a grip on her knife, she cautiously maneuvered through the crowds, headed for the stair, but once roaming hands began assaulting her and aggravating her shoulder, she pushed through, shoving harlots, robbers, and Goddess knows who else, with her palm-heat magic. She wouldn’t dare try a stronger spell; as angry as she was becoming, she couldn’t trust herself to limit her magic’s scope and not bring the entire building down. Just push through! As long as she kept her knife—

  “Sil!” Markus’s voice shouted behind her. “Come back. We’re not done.”

  But she pressed on down the stairs, across the insufferably packed parlor floor, and slammed into the locked iron door. The room grew still, watching her frantically fiddle with the locks, but once opened, she all but threw herself out into the open air where she was met by a loud cheer from inside. Even with the smell of soot and metal mingling, she welcomed this ‘refreshment’ to the garbage inside.

  Naturally, Markus would follow her. “Why the damn are you running for,” he asked.

  She rolled her shoulders back, not wanting to face him. “We are finished. I can’t trust you.”

  “I haven’t manipulated you…that much.” —She snickered.— “Please, look. I’m begging here.”

  She turned over her shoulder, frowning and seeing him look vulnerable with his hands out, knees bent and shoulders slumped. She let her expression grow colder. “You’re doing it now, aren’t you,” she said. “I can tell now.”

  “I…I can’t help it. It’s how I was born, Sil. Weren’t you born with magic. Can you not help using it?”

  “My blessing does manipulate people to serve my selfish purpose.”

  “No,” he said, pointing at her. “You just burn people alive when they cross you. I’d take manipulation over murder any day.”

  “Will you always carry that above me like pale of cold water—”

  “Lady, Gentleman,” said MaCathy as he popped out from around Markus with his arms opened wide. “This is no place to talk. Come back in—”

  “No,” Sil said, digging her heels into the muddy ground. “That i
s a place of filth.”

  MaCathy sighed. “Mr. M, for future reference. No priests.”

  “Noted,” Markus answered.

  “Good day!” She turned —she didn’t care which direction— and marched down the road, Markus’s infuriating soggy steps following.

  “Sil. I didn’t lie to you about who I am. I’m very serious about this.”

  “I’ll find Gene on my own.”

  He groaned. “For the love of…don’t say her name. Please, will you at least try not to be so obvious. Everyone in town is going to know more about us then we know about each other.”

  She raised her chin up. “I have nothing to hide, Mr. M. And I suggest you don’t follow me. We are in Prince Landrie’s lands now, and you don’t have authority over me.”

  He cursed. “Should have known you’d be as difficult as your sister.”

  “If I am that difficult for you, then free yourself of me.”

  “Sil, please.” He stopped walking, letting her get on ahead. “She’s still out there. Hurting people. You saw it yourself. I didn’t lie about that.”

  Sil stopped too, turning over her shoulder at him. “She didn’t do what you think she did to those poor people.”

  “Really? You know her that well? You even said it yourself she threatened you to stop searching for her.” She did threaten her, but there was a difference between murder and sibling rivalry. …No, she didn’t believe it was sibling rivalry either. Gene, that self-preoccupied narcissist, always did what she thought best for herself. At least Sil was there to take care of her parent’s property. Gene couldn’t be bothered from a book to care about anything else. You will have to kill her. Her heart leapt, but then sunk, the knife pressing against her leg coming to her mind. She had to convince Gene to go with her. Maybe with an imperial investigator nearby, Gene would be more inclined to go back rather than to an imperial jail.

  Sil met his eyes, judging whether he was affecting her emotions. “You did lie to me. You said you were searching for her since the war ended. Mister MaCathy said eight years. Eight years ago, the war hadn’t even begun. Eight years ago, she and I were still living in the Temple.”

  “I need your help,” he pleaded with his palms out. “No lie in that.”

  “I need the truth.”

  Markus closed his eyes. “Alright, I’ll tell you. Just. Not here,” he stressed while turning his head side to side, glancing at the dry curb on either side of the thin street that hugged rows of buildings. From there, people watched them, some huddled in doorways, others leaning against walls, smoking cigars. Sil grimaced. He was right. They were very exposed. He then nodded toward an alley on the right.

  Once she followed him inside, she grabbed her hips, waiting for his explanation. He leaned his back against the opposite building, tipping his brim hat lower over his face before crossing his arms.

  “Well—”

  “Eight years isn’t exactly true either,” he began. Another lie? Sil rose her chin and turned to walk out of the alley, but he grabbed her tender shoulder. She winched but eyed his hand warily. “Please, just listen.”

  “Your hand,” she said, staring coolly at it.

  He rolled his one eye, letting go of her. “I came here ten years ago from the King-Maker’s Lands,” he began again with a heavy sigh. Maybe it was part of his conning, but Sil decided to listen and not be swayed by whatever emotion came up in her. “I came here because my family was stolen from me.”

  “Stolen?” She smacked her lips. “How absurd.”

  “Truth often is, Sil. You’re still young. You’ll find out.”

  Sil frowned. “Go on. Where does my sister fit in?”

  “My family, wife and daughter, were sold by a powerful woman back home, a woman ‘blessed’ by the King-Maker.” Sil noticed a flash of anger streak across his face. “I found where my family was shipped off too and left to search for them. After a little digging, I found out a lot of people were arriving at the Holy City from that ship, most from the Steppe and the Highlands. So, I investigated. Sneaking around the Holy Grounds, I learned a lot. Made some friends. And with lucky. I found my family there.” He glanced up at her as he finished.

  “Impossible. Are you implying that we’re stealing people?” She laughed. “Mister Markus Montgomery. I’ve lived in that City and Temple for over ten years. I’ve seen some testy situations when Our Sovereign, Queen Zana, was murdered and the kingdom came apart, but I can tell you no stolen families—”

  “Weren't you listening,” he gasped, searching her with his eye. But she refused to be swayed. “I found them there, chained with others.” He then gazed down at his open hands. “I was there. And I had to…” He took in a sharp breath before continuing, “the beginning of every week, Gene would go into the Rectory by the Gardens—”

  “Of course she did, her devotions demanded it,” Sil interrupted. “But just how would you know that? You were inside the Temple, weren’t you? Spying on us like some—”

  “Spying! Spying? You’re hung up on that? Do you even listening to yourself when you speak!”

  “I can hear just fine—”

  “You sister followed a passage in the basement that led under the Palace. There, I found a very, very big room, huge, with many, many more than just my wife and daughter.” He then pointed his finger at her. “The dead like those we saw infected strung up on that burned caravan. And your sister knows why.”

  She batted his pointing hand away. “You’re obviously mistaken,” she said, trying to ignore her own rising concern. She knew of those deep connecting tunnels underneath the Holy Grounds and the Palace, and that her sister often would go down there, but what she did, Sil had no idea. Must have been part of her sacrificial preparations. Strung up Chill infected patients? Gene would know better than to involve herself with that, especially considering their family’s past. Absurd! No other priest would even have allowed it. The Doyenne would have known. The Synod. Preposterous! Impossible! It is not true. She smiled, “I know you are mistaken.”

  “Urg,” Markus sounded, flaying his arms in the air. “Just when I though I got through to you.” He marched out and then turned to face her. With his hand outstretched, he said. “Why don’t we find her and ask her? Huh?”

  “She isn’t the monster you think she is. Yes, she has her vices, but she’s a priest of the Golden Lady, destined to fight evil alongside the Goddess.”

  “If your so convinced she’s no monster, why carry that knife?”

  She snickered. “For protection,” she lied.

  “Oh, for protection, right?” He opened his long coat and drew two foot-long black hilted daggers, offering them to her. “Here then, these are better than your little chef’s knife.” She looked from the blades to him; she wouldn’t mind having a knife she could actually use, but why was he offering them so suddenly? “Go on.” She reached for them when he added, “But they’re not free. Trade your one knife for my two. The only time in your life you’ll ever get such a bargain.” So, that was his trick. Of course she couldn’t; she needed this knife and its magic. She withdrew her and turned away. He laughed. “I admit I’m not a paragon of honesty, but I think you might be lying. And you know what: I don’t care. If we work together, we can both get what we want. My answers. Your —whatever you’re after.”

  “For her to return to the Temple,” she quickly said, expecting Markus to object. He no doubt wanted her put on trial, but instead, he only extended his hand further. Sil eyed his hand suspiciously. “I still don’t believe you, Mister Montgomery.”

  “You don’t have to. We find Gene. We never see each other again.”

  She smacked her lips. “Very well. Did MaCathy have anything pertinent to say?”

  Markus grinned, his annoying joviality reappearing. “You couldn’t stand being in his company, but you want his information?”

  “I want what gets me to my goal.”

  “Good. Alright then,” he said, dusting his hat on his pants. Just then, Sil notic
ed the scar under his black patched eye extended up onto the top of his head. It reminded her of scars from patients briefly exposed to an awakened Shard, tumors in their brains that had to be removed. But the scar appeared too jagged to be done by a surgeon. More probably, he suffered a blow there in the past. He placed his brimmed hat back on. “MaCathy said she’s been in the town lately,” he continued, leading her down the street toward a busy intersection of horses, carriages, stagecoaches, and foot-traffic. “Explains what we saw outside town.”

  “You’re assuming.”

  “What I’m not assuming is that one of the shopkeepers waiting for an item on that caravan went nosing around to find out what happened. Kept asking and he got really close to her.”

  “How do you know?”

  He tipped the brim of his hat down lower on his face. “Because he’s missing. Last anyone heard was he was going to search for the caravan himself. The authorities here aren’t so good as imperials. Mostly paid off.”

  “Imperials aren’t that good either.”

  He glanced at her longways. “You going to fight me all the time now?”

  Sil fought back a rude gesture. “Yes.”

  Markus chuckled, shaking his head. “Once we get to the intersection,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Don’t mention anything of what I said. MaCathy’s already put a moratorium on the shopkeeper’s place. Wants things to cool down, make sure the shopkeeper doesn’t come back, until he can pilfer the place. So here’s our chance. We’ll go tonight.”