The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim

by Jay Swanson

  The skies cleared over the next day. Before they knew it they were sailing on glass. Ardin spent hours out on the bow watching the hull slice through the waters. The spray in his face made him think of his trip with Alisia from White Shores. He sighed, imagining his hand on hers as it rested on the railing.

  The Fisherman sat with him the next day, breathing deeply as the salty breeze rolled past. The weather was growing steadily warmer, comfortable even.

  “My father was a soldier.” Ardin said. “He wasn't so specialized as Khrone's, but he wound up being some sort of strategist and low-level commander. He never told us much about what he had done, or how he had served. He told us stories, but they were never his own.”

  The Fisherman stretched his legs but stayed silent.

  “Even though he never told us much about his own life, he shared with us what he knew. He taught us how to fight, how to plan our attacks on each other and how to disappear. We thought it was all fun. My brother John and I would traipse off in the woods for days. My mother hated it when we didn't come back at nightfall, but we didn't care. We would get so absorbed in hunting each other that we would forget to eat.”

  He looked up at the big man sitting next to him. “I'd always wanted to be someone like you. Someone like my father, who had served and fought and killed. I thought it would be a great way to turn life into a game.”

  “And now that you're a part of the game, lad?”

  “I wish it was a game.”

  They came within sight of land a day later, the Fisherman cursing at misjudging the distance to the coastline. He hadn't realized quite how close they had come in the night. It couldn't be held against him; there were no real charts of Grandian shores and he hadn't been there in decades. If anyone saw them they didn't make themselves known. The duo passed along the coast, keeping it just in sight as they wandered farther south. They kept a close eye on the shore, a dark slit that separated the blue above from the blue below. The Fisherman said they were just past the line on the world that marked half-way between north and south. But for Ardin, comparing maps to reality in his mind kept the idea from really gaining a foothold.

  “What are we looking for?” Ardin asked after they had passed another natural harbor.

  “There used to be a road that ran from the coast,” the Fisherman said. He kept peering at the horizon as he steered the boat with patient skill. He never bothered to look at Ardin as he continued. “Built it when we landed here durin' the war. It's the only landmark I'm familiar with enough to make land.”

  “Where are we going from there?”

  “Inland. Reconnaissance, lad. Gotta find out what's goin' on. People must be in trouble for the Bein' to ask you to come here.”

  “She said they needed to be freed.”

  “She? I wou... right. I don' doubt it. When we were here last there was whole cities built like slums. People livin' in rancid squalor, right on top of each other. The Demon's slavers had almost broke the whole lot of 'em before we got here. Poor souls hardly remembered they was human any more.”

  Ardin felt a chill run down his spine at the thought. It brought him back to his time in the asylum in the mountains. To his fellow inmates. To the wraith in his dreams. He had forgotten who he was. He wondered how close he had been to forgetting what it was to be human. If that's what the wraith had been there to accomplish. He knew with dark certainty that it was possible.

  “There it is.” The Fisherman brought him back to reality. “Just between those hills. I'd recognize 'em in the dark.”

  And with that they pulled starboard and sailed toward land. Sure enough, Ardin could make out the broken remnants of a road running to the shore as they got closer. It faded into the trees just a few hundred yards in. To call it overgrown would have been to understate how densely covered it now was. Enormous trees covered the landscape, crowding down to the rocky beaches as if being forced into the ocean by the sheer mass of their numbers. They were different than any trees he had ever seen. Like flat-bottomed clouds connected to the earth by ever thickening leashes.

  It seemed miraculous to Ardin. Even the jungle at White Shores couldn't compare to the majesty of this forest. It seemed to ebb and flow back to the horizon, swelling up and breaking on the bald buttes that dotted the landscape. The road ran between two of the larger hills who, though covered in tall grasses and shrubs, looked bare in comparison to their surroundings.

  “If Donovan can get us some help, this is where he'll come.”

  “We're not even sure what kind of help we'll need,” Ardin said quietly. He surveyed the growing shore with suspicion. The air became even warmer and stickier as they drew near.

  “Nah, lad. You're right. But we will need help, that much is certain.”

  They moored the boat as high on the beach as they could. The Fisherman said that the tide would leave it sitting on land, which made little sense to Ardin, but he trusted the old man. They tied the bow to as many trees as they had ropes for. The sun began to set before they had even found a suitable clearing in which to camp.

  It took them another hour to get their supplies off the ship.

  “There's no one around,” Ardin said as the Fisherman dropped a load of driftwood in front of him. “I mean no one. I've never seen so much empty space.”

  “The mountains back home are awful empty,” he said, sitting back to watch Ardin work.

  Ardin had only been able to practice with blocks of wood and crates on the boat. It was tempting to exercise his manipulation of the Atmosphere on something new. He started by sorting the driftwood into a pile. He formed ropes in his mind; more than that, they were living tendrils. He gave them instructions on what to pick up and where to put it simply by imagining where they were to go. He was getting to the point where he was comfortable moving small objects without much thinking about it.

  “But you always know there's someone over the next ridge.” He put his palms up and brought the fire on slowly. “You can feel them, you know? You can tell that people live there even though you can't see them. It doesn't feel like that here.”

  He built a separate pile of driftwood and reached out with a hand. He focused on it, working to imagine the flames into existence without closing his eyes. The warmth stirred within him as he willed it forth. The wood started to smoke as the heat increased. He wanted to control it, to know how slowly he could do it. Another few moments passed before impatience won out and the whole thing burst into flames.

  “There will be people a few miles in,” the Fisherman said. He opened a can of small fish and skewered one on a stick. “They're afraid of the dragons that swim the coast. And remember, this continent was laid waste by the enemy. There weren't a lot of people here when we left it, and I doubt there are many more to show for the time between.”

  They ate their meal in relative silence. Ardin closed his eyes, willing his awareness away from himself. He had found Tertian in the mountains with what he had thought was his imagination. Now he pushed himself around their campsite. Using what little he could remember, the world came alive in his mind as he swept around the fire and then further into the trees. He could see the sun setting, and a bird flit through the branches of a tree, though it wasn't quite like seeing it with his eyes. He was aware of it, and it seemed visual, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly how to describe it. As he chewed on the words an idea came to him. He pushed himself back towards the fire and set a few enchantments around their camp. This was almost like pure creation, he realized. He made trip wires of sorts out of lines that only he could see; ones that he attached to himself and would wake him in case of intrusion. He didn't know if it would work, but it was worth taking the time to practice. He smiled to himself as he lay by the dim embers of his fire. For the first time since he could remember, he drifted off into a contented sleep.

  They slept through the night without incident. Even the ground had seemed soft to Ardin, who felt refreshed as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The Fisherman was alread
y awake and carving up what looked like a strange spiky potato.

  “What is that?”

  “Try some.” He handed a slice of golden yellow fruit to Ardin with a wink. “It'll change yer life.”

  Ardin sniffed at it suspiciously but gave it a try. It was sweet, and incredibly juicy.

  “What on...” he said before he shoved the rest in his mouth. “It's amathing! What ith it?”

  “I have no idea.” The Fisherman smiled. “I remember it from our first time here. I wasn't lyin' when I said it would change yer life.”

  “Do you have more?” Ardin licked the golden juice off his fingers.

  The Fisherman laughed. “They grow all over along the coast, lad. We won't run out of them until we get farther inland.” He stood and shouldered his pack, back in his full armor. It already looked uncomfortable to begin with but Ardin was sure the heat of the day was going to push him over the edge. The idea that they had somehow wandered back into summer was wreaking havoc on his internal calendar. “Speakin' of which, we'd better set off.”

  “Did you already pack our stuff back to the boat?”

  “Aye lad, heavy sleeper that you are.”

  They began their hike inland along the remnants of the road. The trees grew more dense and thinned out in inconsistent intervals, leaving Ardin wondering even more about them. It was so strange that they didn't grow in uniformity like the forests near Levanton. They passed through the first buttes, discovering more of the high hills rolling back for miles from the coast as the road steadily disappeared into the foliage. As the miles wore on, Ardin took to daydreaming to pass the time. He imagined he was flying through the trees like a small bird until he realized he truly was flying among their branches in his mind. He saw the Fisherman alone below him, which was odd, until the old man called to him.

  Ardin's eyes snapped open and he looked around to find that he was standing by himself. The Fisherman had broken off and begun climbing a butte to their left. Ardin hadn't even noticed that they had wandered between two of the hills again. So you were off on your own, then. He shouldered his pack a little higher and sauntered over to the Fisherman, who stood waiting.

  “Best get a look-see at what's ahead 'fore we gets to it ourselves. There's little high ground from here inland.”

  “You know,” Ardin said as he caught up. “I miss mountains. Real mountains. A lot. I never thought you could miss mountains.”

  “You can miss a lot o' things, lad.” The Fisherman smiled as he began to hike up the hill again. “But missin' things is the first filter in figurin' what's worth havin' in the first place.”

  It didn't take them much more than twenty minutes to make it to the top, the Fisherman slowing considerably as they neared the crest of the hill. It was strange to leave the treeline and walk up among the grasses. Ardin felt exposed, naked to any who would see them.

  “The first rule of hills, lad, is to come over 'em nice and slow-like. There's no better place to get a view o' what's around, but there's no easier place to get spotted neither.”

  They did just that, watching the landscape as it was gradually revealed to them. Ardin didn't see much, though the trees began to thin out considerably as they approached the distant horizon. It looked like nothing but grasslands beyond. Suddenly the Fisherman put his hand out to stop Ardin. He signaled for silence as he lowered himself slowly into a crouch.

  “What is it?” Ardin whispered through the grass as it swayed between them.

  “Not sure.” The Fisherman's eyes were locked ahead. “Follow me, nice and slow.”

  They moved to the edge of the hill. The grass didn't seem to grow as high on this side. Ardin's eyes darted everywhere, searching for the slightest hint of movement. He was about to ask if the Fisherman wasn't losing his mind when he saw them. A group of men dressed in dark rags running through the forest. They were difficult to spot as they ran; the tailing shreds of cloth further masked them to the dark leaves and trunks of the trees. But they were there, running north not a mile away.

  “Who are they?”

  “Don't know, lad.” The Fisherman was looking farther north, to their right now. “But I imagine they're headed towards those bastards over there.”

  Ardin followed the Fisherman's gesture to see a large group of men walking in a tight but haggard formation. They were much closer, walking among the trees just beyond the base of the far butte. It took him a moment before he realized there were larger, black things walking around the perimeter of the group. They had whips.

  The two groups were set on intersecting paths.

  “What do we do?” He looked up at the Fisherman whose face had turned grim.

  “Lad, I think it's time I taught you how to turn invisible.”

  TWELVE

  “SO YOU'RE CERTAIN YOU HAVEN'T SEEN ANYTHING?” Anders Keaton couldn't believe their luck. So he chose not to.

  “No, sir. Still nothing.” Sykes was a ghostly shell of himself. Pale and beyond exhausted in the starving cold.

  “Why would they just stop?”

  “I don't know, sir. But I'm increasingly of the opinion that we take it as a good sign and get the hell out of here. Back to Elandir, I mean, sir. It's been a long time since I've had a hot meal, let alone sleep in any recognizable form.”

  Keaton agreed that home sounded good. The fact that the monsters had disappeared four days before was unsettling. Why chase them all the way to the farmlands and then stop? They had stumbled upon an outpost that had been torn to shreds by the things. But aside from that they had lost all contact.

  “What the hell is going on?” he muttered to himself.

  “Sir, we need to get back to the city. We're all getting sick, and we haven't hardly eaten in almost three weeks. We have to give our report or they're going to go to war.”

  “They'll go to war anyways, Sykes.” Keaton was resigned to the fact now. “We weren't meant to survive this.”

  “So that's it, then?” Sykes tone dripped with incredulity. “We're gonna become farmers now? Or maybe get into the business of selling those things as pets? I actually know a couple of people I wouldn't mind dropping one of those on, now that I think of it.”

  “No, but we can't just go straight back, either.”

  “Sir, all I want to do is go straight back.”

  Keaton needed proof. He was afraid he would need much more than just the claw of one of those things. But there was no chance he would risk his men on a hunt for one. They seemed to travel in packs, large packs. The idea of coming up against them now was untenable. Even if it could pay off, the risk was too great. They were in no shape for a fight.

  The frustration of the reality of things made Keaton want to scream. “I'm in a lot of trouble, Sykes.”

  “We'll be right behind you, sir.”

  “Not for this. You can't be. When I show up and tell them the truth, I can only foresee two outcomes. The only difference between the two being whether or not they let me live. Either way, no one's listening to us.”

  “So what do we tell them?”

  “The truth. That's not the problem. The problem is what do we do when they go to war anyways. We could try to contact Liscentia or Silverdale, but if we're caught it would be seen as treason.”

  “And they're as unlikely to listen to us.”

  “Even less so.” Keaton agreed. “Which means all we can do is wait, and watch for the opportune moment to redirect this whole thing.”

  THE SHADOW KING STOOD IN THE LORENDIAN DESERT TO THE WEST OF LISCENTIA. His cape whipped around him as the cold sand bit at his face. The wind storm had come upon him long before he realized it. He hadn't moved for two days.

  A solitary figure among the dunes that made up one of the most hostile deserts on the planet. He was safe from intrusion out here; it was the reason he had chosen it as his route. But now he was frozen by indecision. It was almost as if his brain had shut down completely, leaving him to stare blankly at the shredded papers he held tightly in his fist.


  The notebooks he had killed so many for were gone, destroyed beyond his ability to repair. And with them, his hopes of bringing his people back disintegrated.

  He had taken them out to look at them the day after entering the desert, only to discover there wasn't anything left to see. His ability to make the jump was powerful, but limited. Either he made it entirely, or with a very small portion of his body. What had made the Shadow so terrifying early on in the Purge had been their ability to react to the intrusion of weapons by thoughtlessly making that portion of themselves disappear. Arrows, bullets, swords – they all passed straight through without effect when a Shade's guard was up.

  But that meant detecting the intrusion first against their skin, which meant that until they made a complete jump, their clothes were often left more ragged than they were. And with them, anything they happened to be carrying. Like little worn notebooks. Their clothes would mend. Anything extra would not.

  The realization of the loss was devastating. His mind felt tired, almost absent. This was the end; there was no option left to him any longer.

  The only choice that remained was a path he had sworn never to take. Even after losing the Magi he knew he could never approach the Demon and could never accept his help. That was one step he would never take. He had told himself time and time again, never this. And now he had no choice. No choice. The words echoed in the hollow recesses of his vacated mind.

  What was left of the paper had disintegrated in the sandstorm, leaving him staring at the few scraps that visibly represented his hopes. They were irreparably dashed. He could feel himself being forced from a precipice. One upon which he had balanced for a long time. It was a leap he did not want to make. The fall was something from which he might never recover.

  He forced his reservations to the side. He had no choice. He would do it, and somehow... somehow he would turn it to good. But how could he possibly justify this? How could he not call it treason? He had been there at the end. When they had defeated the Demon. When they had imprisoned him in his tomb in the Dragon's Teeth. That massive ring of tall white spikes and the impassable mountains that surrounded the Spring Vale like timeless sentries.