The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim

by Jay Swanson

  “We can even carry small objects with us if they're properly stowed.”

  “Well I was trying to tell you,” the researcher stammered. “None of my assistants have arrived yet. They should have been coming in by now.”

  “Fantastic.” The Shade stood and edged towards the hallway.

  Silence wandered through the long hall and expanded until it consumed the building. He glanced slowly around the corner. Police, and lots of them. He turned back to the researcher.

  “They don't have any shelters out there do they?”

  “I can't say for certain. As far as I know mine are the last.”

  “Like I said.” The Shade pulled his sword off his back. “Burn them.”

  With that he turned and walked down the hallway.

  “Fine shot there, boy!” The officer who had been sent to find the murderer slapped his sharpshooter on the shoulder. He was in a decent mood. They would never have found the cloaked man if they hadn't been called by one of the university's groundskeepers. “Alright ya'll, c'mon out! Let's go see who this sum'bich is.”

  “Sir?” The sharpshooter stood up. “I ain't sure I got 'im.”

  “Sure you did son, spun him right round on his ass.”

  “I know sir, begin' yer pardon, but I only got his shoulder. Could'a been the wrong guy.”

  “Dark cloak, long hair, fits the description. If it weren't him, well, it is now. Paperwork's shorter that way.” He laughed and raised his arm. “C'mon boys, gotta get this place back in order! Gotta get these kids back to school. They gots 'em learnin' to do!”

  The officer deflected his subordinate's caution with sarcasm. He had never been able to afford the education his own city provided. And while he told himself he hated her students because they were soft, part of him knew it was envy.

  There were easily thirty deputies with them. They wore ratty uniforms and outfits in varying shades of brown. At the officer's call they came out of hiding from behind trees and bushes. They were a rag-tag bunch, but then again the police force in this town simply represented its populace. When they weren't fighting, drinking, or stealing, they were content to play police.

  They did stand out from their surroundings though. The nicely kept green lawns and marble pillars around every tall white building were reminders of better days. Days that threatened to be lost forever.

  “Course I reckon we's gonna have to get that window re-paired.” He snickered. “Thompson! Get that glass smith on the horn, would ya?”

  “Yes sir,” the man called Thompson chuckled. The university would be lucky if broken glass was all they had to pay for after this visit. “Any other ways outta this buildin' sir?”

  “Nah, was made back before all that fire code bullshit. Only one way in and one way out, 'cept if they like crawlin' through windows like the rats they is.”

  They laughed at the joke. Not so much because it was funny. It wasn't. They did so because they didn't want to get their teeth kicked in for not laughing.

  A group of five deputies walked behind the officer, who didn't bother to slow down as they approached the door. So confident was he that they had got their man that he holstered his gun. Bastard was Elandrian, he thought. Prolly edurcated. See how well that edurcation stopped that bullet, won't we? He grinned to himself as he mounted the stairs. No sooner had he secured his gun on his belt did the doors burst open.

  “Holy sh–”

  The expletive was cut short as an exaggeratedly long, gently curved blade slit his throat clean open. He dropped to the ground gurgling, grabbing desperately at his throat as if the gesture alone could stop the bleeding.

  The five deputies with him stumbled back. Their reaction sealed their doom as the figure in black spun amongst them, killing all five in one sweep of his sword. They dropped to the ground, some writhing, some already dead. The Shadow King stayed in his stance, low to the ground. His sword and right leg remained out to the side, left leg and hand crouched, ready to launch him into the fray.

  Keen gray eyes scanned his surroundings. There were just over twenty left, all armed, ten with pistols, the rest with rifles or scatter guns. Only three of them looked remotely unsurprised by his appearance. A brief inflection of pity flickered in his throat before he smiled it away. They had asked for this.

  He dashed to the left as the bullets started landing around him. He picked up speed, feeling his body respond naturally to the intrusion of each bullet. Wavering, disappearing, letting it pass through, and reappearing in an instant. It had taken him years to develop the skill. And blood – he had spilled a lot of blood for what he was capable of. But now it came as an afterthought. There was a reason he had been dubbed the King of the Shades, and this was only the half of it.

  He planted his foot on a bench and vaulted himself ten feet in the air. He soared over a bush. It was screening a scraggly, bearded man who fired wildly at him. The Shade landed just behind the man and spun in place. He cut the wretch clean in half before coming to a stop. He heard them shouting to each other; if they hadn't feared him before, they certainly did now.

  He dove over another low hedge and rolled between the next two police officers, whipping the blade up across the face of the first and ripping it down into the groin of the next. Twisting and pulling up on the sword as he yanked it free, leaving a lethal gash in the man, who rolled on the ground screaming. But the Shade was already on the move.

  He started playing with them, disappearing only to reappear between them. Slashing and cutting and hacking them up while he sang the old war hymn of the Shadow. The song had meant nothing to him as a Shade, for its sole purpose was to drive fear into his enemies' hearts. But now it stirred his soul and the bloodlust to sing it.

  From the darkness have we come

  Take your flight and from us run

  Born of powers light and fair

  Fill with screams shall we the air

  For blood and glory were we made

  Steel and slaughter are our trade

  Though ages old the Magi's pride

  Shadow Warriors side by side

  Onlookers watched in horror as he decimated the police. Before he had finished singing they all lay dead. Breathing heavily, he grinned. This was what he was made for. The Harbinger of Death. Oblivion's Angel. Carnage Incarnate. Call him what they would, he was made to kill.

  This wouldn't be so easily overlooked as the night before, he knew. He wouldn't be given time to make his escape, especially with so many witnesses already fleeing the scene. And so he ran, striving to leave the city immediately. And in doing so, he failed to realize the notebooks he had come for had been obliterated by bullets in the fight.

  TEN

  “COME ON UP HERE, LAD. There's someone I want you to meet.”

  The declaration was confusing to Ardin. He got up from the table where he had been reading and made for the bridge. How could there be anyone to meet when they were so far out on the ocean? He made his way cautiously up the steep, narrow stairwell that led to the Fisherman.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Me best mate, Paul Donovan. The one I tried to match you up with back in Brenton. He's just ahead.”

  Ardin looked to where the large man was pointing; he could just make out another ship on the horizon.

  “How did he know to meet us?”

  “Sent out a signal, lad. Simple as that.”

  “Can't other people pick them up?”

  “Sure, but shouldn't know what they mean. Old code, long phased outta service.”

  As they drew closer to the Droning Ingrid, Ardin remarked that it was unlike any ship he had yet seen. It looked like a large battle cruiser retrofitted to serve as a passenger ship. Dark and gray, it blended in well with its choppy surroundings. Frost had built up around the edges of the portholes.

  “Didn't it used to be white?”

  “Aye, lad. Most like. You'd be surprised how much Donovan there likes a fresh paint job.”

  “What's he doing out
here?”

  “Come to deliver a message for us, lad. And I never get off to a fight without a good mate knowin' where it is I'm off to.”

  “A message?”

  But the burly old man was paying more attention to his speed as he slowed and brought his boat to a stop. Ardin frowned, and only partly because the boat started to roll more among the waves. They were still a good mile or two off from the ship, which was confusing until he saw a small boat with an outboard motor approaching. Three men were stabilizing it while another prepared to throw a rope up as they got closer.

  Ardin and the Fisherman walked out to the port side deck as they drifted together. Soon the men were lashing their boat to the fishing vessel. The waves threatened to toss them overboard into the freezing water more than once. But they were well-experienced and able-bodied. Soon a large man had hauled himself over the railing and stood facing Ardin and the Fisherman. Dressed all in dark blue he looked as old as the Fisherman and nearly as broad. His jaw and nose were square, broad and blunt, and he smiled as generously as the Fisherman.

  “Cid, you dog.”

  “Paul! I worried you'd be too far south to get the transmission.”

  The men embraced, brothers in war long separated, but brothers still. Donovan had some dark scatterings to his beard, making him look slightly younger than the Fisherman.

  “Aye, barely got it, as a fact. Had to turn 'round to get here in time. And who be this then?”

  “This is young Ardin Vitalis. Say 'ello, lad.”

  “Hi.” Ardin felt uneasy in the presence of the two old friends. They had something he envied; it reminded him of his brother, John.

  “So what's this all about then, Cid? I've got some ancy jacks on this voyage. Not too happy 'bout the delay in their trip south, I should say. Nasty rumors of war, and all that.”

  “We're headed to Grandia.”

  The announcement fell flat on the deck, Donovan's jaw nearly joining it.

  “You're what then?”

  “Grandia–”

  “I heard ya Cid, but why? That place is forbidden us, you know that.”

  “It's no longer a matter of forbidden, Donovan.”

  “We swore ne’er to return there, mate.”

  “We swore a lot of things, Donovan; times change.”

  “I should hope you have good reason.”

  “The old dragon is wakin' up. He's gatherin' strength. Young Ardin here has been ordered to go and stand in his way.”

  “And so you'll traipse on over there and ask him to kindly stop, then. Is that it? On the word of some boy? Pardon me, lad.”

  Ardin shrugged. It did sound kind of crazy when it was phrased so bluntly.

  “That's the bit we have yet to figure out.”

  “Well it's a mighty fine bit to be leavin' out of the maths then isn't it?”

  “I wanted someone to know where we was goin' and hopin' you might be able to follow.”

  “Where you're goin'? What for, mate? I ain't followin' ya. Ya know I'd follow you anywhere. Anywhere but there.”

  “We'll need support, Donovan. Ye know that, and where the Demon's been there's always need to save hordes of lost souls. If nothin' else, we'll be needin' a lift.” He looked plaintively at his old friend, weak pleas falling on deaf ears. “T'was the Greater Bein' that's told us to go, Paul.”

  “Is it to him we're indebted, Cid? He left us high and dry in the Purge, you'll remember. It were the Magi we swore to protect. The Bein'... he can bugger himself.”

  “If nothin' else we owe it to the people whose lives hang in the balance...”

  The Fisherman's eyes sank ever so slightly in the silence that followed. The tension built until Ardin thought the boat itself might crack in the middle.

  “I'm hopin' you'll change your mind if'n I need it.”

  “What's the other thing then? That can't be all you called me up fer.”

  “I need you to contact someone in Elandir, someone we can trust.”

  “Great winds on the sea, you want me to do what?” Donovan looked aghast. “We don't have any friends left in that forsaken city, Cid.”

  “They'll be needin' to prepare for the worst.”

  “Which is what, then? The end o' the bloody world?”

  “More or less. We need to find someone we can trust. There has to be a good soul left in that city.”

  The two men stood staring at each other, the Fisherman waiting for his friend's reply while Donovan just pulled at his beard. Finally, he walked back to the railing. He stopped to look back briefly.

  “You're a damned fool, Cid.”

  “Don't I know it.”

  “Don't know that I can provide you any help, mate. Not on this side o' the sea nor th'other.”

  “I'm only hopin' that you'll try.”

  And without a further word Donovan vaulted himself over the side and rappelled down to the waiting boat. They cut their ties with as little ceremony and sped off for their ship. The Fisherman and Ardin walked to the rail to watch him go. Paul Donovan sat facing back towards them in his boat, a profound look of sadness emanating from him as the distance increased.

  The Fisherman sighed as he watched his old friend leave.

  “Will he help us?”

  “I don't know lad.” He never took his eyes off the shrinking boat. “Don't even know how he could.”

  They passed the next few days in relative silence, taking a turn west from their southerly course and headed diagonally across the ocean. The pull of his strained relationship seemed to weigh heavily on the Fisherman. Ardin's shoulder grew sore from time to time. The small vessel chugged along, breaking stride only once when it shut down unexpectedly. The Fisherman had it up and running again within an hour; he muttered something about oil pressure but Ardin didn't catch it.

  “Cid,” he asked one day. “How are we going to fuel the ship when we want to return?”

  “That,” he said, “Is among the reasons we need Donovan to come fetch us.”

  The days passed in a similar fashion, the Fisherman's concerns keeping him in a brooding silence. Ardin tried to find ways to spend his time, whittling at blocks of wood he had found in one of the cabins. The wood was brittle, and the boning knife he dug up was relatively dull, so the carving went slowly at first. He decided to try and carve it with the Atmosphere instead. It was difficult at first, focusing the energy to maintain the control necessary for delicate patterns while not using so much force that he might cause the blocks to splinter. It was frustrating, and he put the blocks down in anger more than once. But he had little else to do, and the finesse came with time. With it came a slow burning pride, in his ability, but more in what his father would have said had he been there to see him work.

  He thought often of Alisia, and their trip across the sea together. That little boat had rocked far less. He missed the way her lips parted over her teeth when she smiled, and the feel of her fingers on the back of his hand.

  When he found himself hesitant to work on taming the Atmosphere, he wandered about the cabins, discovering various books but uncovering little to read. They all had to do with coast guard regulations or industry standards. None of it made sense to him, even if it had been at all interesting.

  Thoughts of Levanton came and went, his inability to avenge his family and his failure to protect them ever plaguing him from the fringe of his thoughts. The Shadow King. That's who he wanted now. He was the only one left to hold responsible. There was little chance Ardin would be able to find him though, let alone know what to do when he did. But the dais in the mountains, in the Temple of the Magi, that was something he could attain. He craved nothing more than to be with Alisia, and that, at least, seemed within reach.

  What he wanted to know now was more about the Fisherman. About his life before he donned the broad canvas hat and dingy gray rain gear. He wanted to know who the hero had been before the bland cliché was born.

  “Tell me about the wars,” Ardin said one day when visiting the bridge.
/>
  “The what now?” The Fisherman was lost in his own thoughts, his expression blending grimly with the overcast sea.

  “The Continental Wars, you said you fought in them.”

  “Hmm...” He mused on the request for a moment but stayed silent.

  “Why do they call you the 'Cleaver?'”

  The Fisherman laughed at that. “They don't! At least none who knew me as such. The Cleaver is my blade. They said it looked more like a giant meat cleaver than any respectable sword, and so the name stuck.”

  “So what's your title then?”

  “Just 'Captain.' That's more than enough title for me.”

  “The Shadow,” Ardin said. “What are they?”

  “Ah, the gray bastard weighin' on yer mind is he?” He sighed as he smiled. “It's been somethin' like fifty years since they made that old ghost. The Shadow were made to fight for the Magi, pure and simple.”

  “But who made them?”

  “The Magi did, magnificent process that. I don't know where they came up with the original material to make them, but I always assumed it was the Greater Bein'.”

  “Yeah, I met her in the Temple of the Magi.”

  “Her? Huh, I always thought of him as a... well, a him. I guess it would be hard to know for sure now he has no body. As for the Shadow, haste was the problem. They never consulted the Creator in the process.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “Well the Bein' has no ability to create, only to modify and build upon what is already in existence. When he, or she I suppose, sought help governin' mankind she asked for help from the Creator. He consented, and together they made the Magi. Thus they were a new creation, the first of their kind and, like we humans, bein's that exist on the spiritual plain as well as the physical and metaphysical.”

  “But the Shadow don't...”

  “Aye, that's right. They take after their namesake in a number of ways. They're neutral, unfeeling, almost like machines built solely for the purposes of war. Mankind had never fought to any scale beyond that of a good tavern brawl. And so the Magi, in great need of an army, sought out the Bein'. And in their combined haste they made the Shadow.”