The Marechal Chronicles: Volume V, The Tower of the Alchemist

by Aimelie Aames

  Then came light that bore down on him, reminding him that he possessed eyes with which he might see. Instead, he squinted them shut as tightly as he could.

  Where he found himself, in darkness and forgetfulness, was a more comfortable place than the alternative.

  If only the awful sound that could not have come from a horse or a giant would silence itself at last.

  The man waited, hoping that other sounds would come and drown it out. But there were no birds to sing for joy of the bright sun that shined down upon a man lying on the ground.

  There was only that horrible sound, low and insistent.

  Then the man understood.

  The sound came from his own heart.

  His living heart.

  Only there was something terribly wrong.

  With a sudden intake of breath, Etienne pistoned up from the ground, his entire body lifting in a spasm that brought him to his knees.

  His throat burned and his eyes streamed and a new sound came at last to silence that of his own heart. But it was a far worse thing.

  He screamed until his breath came to an end, then he inhaled so that his lungs filled near to bursting before he screamed again.

  All of it came flooding back to him. His father, the tower ... his beloved Myri.

  “NOoooooooooooooo!”

  Pain lanced through him as he staggered to his feet.

  Then he held back his next cry and looked around himself.

  He recognized nothing.

  For a moment, he could have believed that somehow he had been transported somewhere very far away, a desolate place that looked nothing like the home of his forefathers.

  Dust rose in the air, then fell again. Whatever wind blew died away, only to return, stubborn to do its work before it, too, breathed its last breath.

  Etienne turned slowly in a circle, searching.

  But there was no tower.

  His muddled thoughts took time to understand that the broken stone surrounding him on all sides, like a ghastly desert that belonged to the pale country of nightmares, all of it was the wreckage and remains of the tower of the Alchemist.

  “MYRI!”

  He shouted with all his force.

  He stumbled as he walked, shouting her name as loudly as he could.

  “FATHER!”

  Etienne could not tell if he walked where the tower had stood, or even if he walked away from it. Blocks of stone, so many broken into jagged shards, lay in every direction.

  He shielded his eyes from the sun overhead, dimly registering that it must have been midday and that he had lain there, unconscious, for hours.

  Or perhaps for days.

  He ran back the way he had come, then began clambering over heaps of stone, shouting the names of his loved ones.

  There was no answer.

  Etienne came to a number of blocks that had tumbled into a heap, creating a small hill that blocked both his way and his view.

  He clambered up, the shattered stones shifting under him treacherously.

  Once at the top, he scanned the seemingly endless sea of broken stone only to see, at last, a ring of stone a few paces away.

  It was all that remained standing of the tower. He went to it, drawn to the foundations of his entire life until then, hope of finding Myri or his father still alive dwindling with each step.

  Etienne touched the broken walls, none of them rising higher than his chest, many of them broken almost to the ground.

  His eyes stung and he turned around.

  “ANYONE!” he shouted.

  Silence was his answer.

  Grey eyes surveyed the bleak surroundings. Grey eyes moist, liquid with bitter remorse.

  Then they grew hard as firm resolve bloomed behind them.

  At once, Etienne turned on his heel and marched back to the hill of blocks over which he had just come.

  He bent down and in a frenzy, he lifted up a broken stone, the cords of his neck standing out, then cast it to the side, only to bend again.

  He continued on, only pausing from time to time to shout, to hope that he would hear some weak reply.

  Then, with silence his bitter reward, he bent to his task once more.

  When he had shifted most of the broken blocks before him, what remained were the cut stones still whole for most part. These required a strength far greater than his to move.

  In desperation, Etienne dashed to the next pile of stone and began again, calling out from time to time.

  Finally, he fell down upon his knees in exhaustion, his chest heaving with his efforts.

  He shifted to a sitting position, determined to catch his breath and begin again. His intent being to continue moving what stones he could until he died in the attempt.

  As he gulped air and his breathing calmed at last, Etienne noticed once more the strange sound, the quiet sound, that had never really left him since he had awoken in the midst of such terrible destruction.

  It was not the sound of some hallucinatory horse ... nor the sound of a monster that walked upon three legs.

  It was a syncopated beat of three, a large thud followed by a quieter one that was, in turn, followed by another so quickly after that it was like an echo.

  And the sound came from nowhere else except from Etienne himself.

  His heart.

  His beating heart.

  Etienne looked down at himself to see a snaking scar winding down his torso, his shirt shredded along its lines.

  The scar tracked across the center of his chest and, as he followed it upward with his finger, it ended along his jawline.

  A blade of starlight had struck him like a giant's glaive.

  He had felt it cleave his chest, and the rhythm of his heart had come to an end.

  The alchemist's son shook his head.

  “This cannot be,” he whispered, and still there was no answer in that desolate place.

  Yet it could not be denied. His heart beat, but the sound had changed to a nightmare sound of a thing that had healed wrong.

  Then Etienne's eyes went wide.

  If he had survived, then perhaps there was still hope for the others.

  He leaped to his feet and set to work again in a frenzy.

  His efforts were frenetic, disorganized, as panic had its way with him.

  Then he froze.

  He saw something that made his heart leap with hope in his chest.

  He had just dislodged yet another stone, and as he tore it away, one above it shifted to take its place. And where that one had been, he saw the slender finger of a woman's hand.

  “MYRI!”

  Etienne burst forward, throwing stones to the side like a madman until her entire hand was exposed.

  “Myri, my love. I'm coming. I'm coming,” he breathed.

  For only a moment, he dared to touch her, he dared hope that she would clasp his hand. But the touch of her hand was cooler than it should have been, and a deeper cold stole over Etienne then.

  He uncovered her to the wrist, but a single, unbroken block lay across her forearm. A block like the others that had defied his strength until then.

  Etienne bent to it. He forced his fingers along its sides until his fingertips could go no further.

  He held to it with as much purchase as he could manage and he heaved with all his strength.

  The block moved.

  Then so did all the rest of the stone before him.

  The block pinning Myri's arm in place had been a haphazard keystone and with his most supreme effort, Etienne managed to shift it to one side just as all of it shifted under him.

  He lost his balance and fell.

  When he stood again, he wished that he had not.

  Myri's hand and forearm lay in plain view, shorn away from the rest of her, a thin trail of blood trickling upon the rock where it lay while there was still no sign of her body.

  Etienne sat back down and cradled his head in his hands.

  He remembered that there had been an explosion.
r />   A terrible explosion. Nothing else could have brought the tower so expertly crafted down to nothing but the sad detritus he saw everywhere he looked.

  That he had survived such a thing was impossible.

  He looked again at what remained of his beloved.

  That anyone else had survived was beyond impossible.

  He remained that way for a long time, simply staring at the torn away arm of the woman he had loved.

  With his eyes, he traced the lines of her slender hand. He thought of her gentle touch and of how everything had gone so terribly wrong. All of it far worse than his most dire imaginings.

  Etienne pounded his fists down upon his thighs and cried out.

  “Cannot anyone help me?”

  Whether he shouted to the gods or to someone within earshot, he did not know.

  What he did know was that little hope remained to him.

  “I'm going for help,” he said, not bothering to shout anymore.

  “I cannot do this alone. I'm sorry.”

  Tears ran down his dusty cheeks as he stood up to face his failure.

  Then he turned his back on it and began walking away from the tower and the doom it had meant for those he had most loved.

  As he walked away, Etienne came to the first trees that bordered his father's land.

  He paid them no mind, intent on joining the little dirt road, more of a wagon track than anything, that would then lead him into the village of Urrune.

  If he had noticed, if he had been able to see past the tears that still ran down his face, then he would have seen leaves falling down all around him as he walked.

  If remorse had not deafened him, he would have heard the gentle susurration as leaves fell while autumn was yet several months away.

  He might have noticed the absence of the scribbling and scrabbling sound of the tiny beasts of the forest, never more than a whisper, yet utterly silenced in the aftermath.

  At last, Etienne came to the road that led to the tower and he walked stiffly toward it.

  He remembered his friend, Bellamere, standing there and waving back at him. The smith's son had smiled at Etienne, not knowing the terrible fate destiny had in store for him.

  The alchemist's son went down that same dirt track and as he came close to where he had last seen Bellamere, he stopped.

  He did not look back. He knew the tower would not be there if he did.

  Nor would his father, or Myri, to wave to him the way he had to Bellamere.

  Instead, a deep foreboding came over him.

  A sense that if he kept going, he could never come back.

  If his vision had not been clouded by terrible loss, Etienne might have noticed the line of silence and death, the border between the lands of the tower and those beyond, those with trees that still held onto their leaves and under which squirrels still scampered about.

  The alchemist's son shrugged.

  He took a trembling step forward and then the world turned over, a horrible sound rising in the air before his vision went dark and night came to claim him while the sun still shone overhead.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Cap'n!”

  The man that spoke had just ridden back to the company of soldiers.

  They were dusty and tired, all of them on foot except for the captain and his corporal. Other than the officers, there were a couple of scouts ahorse who rode ahead and sometimes behind to keep an eye on the road before them and on whatever past might come back to bite them on the ass.

  “Soldier,” the captain nodded, snapping his hand to his temple and back down again.

  Corporal Lauze had always thought that one day someone would find themselves in the way of the captain's salute, and woe to them if they did. The way the career soldier brought that hand down made him think it was with enough force to kill a man.

  Or at least break his nose for him.

  The scout dropped his own saluting hand, then gulped.

  “Out with it, soldier,” said Captain Tarn.

  Lauze knew the man did not hold for anyone who wanted to turn round a thing before getting to spitting words.

  Their captain was as direct as they come.

  “Pintuk went ahead, sir. But th'uss a body on the road, way yonder.”

  Captain Tarn was silent for a time, only stroking his chin while the entire company of soldiers behind them shifted upon aching feet.

  The corporal knew they were ready for any excuse to stop for the day and make camp. That it be over someone's dead body did not matter to a single one of them.

  They had seen plenty of still bodies. They were sure to see plenty more once they got where they were going.

  “Dead or alive, Sprunk?”

  The scout looked puzzled at the captain's question.

  “Why I don't rightly know, sir. We's spotted that crow fodder just laying there not moving, and Pintuk says he wuss going ahead and I wuss to go behind and let you know.”

  The captain did not reply for a moment, but when he did, the entire company of soldiers let out a collective groan.

  “We shall continue and see this body for ourselves,” he said to the corporal.

  Lauze knew his cue and loosed a barking command.

  “F'ord ... harch!”

  The company might have been slouching only a moment before, but when the command sounded to take up the march again, they snapped to, backs straight, shoulders set, and they marched with the long loping stride that ate up leagues like dragons eat maidens.

  At least, that was how Corporal Lauze thought of it.

  He was proud of them. The men and women at his and the captain's backs were hard as old leather and as ornery as a troop of mountain bears.

  They were solid soldiers and good at what they did.

  Let's hope they keep it that way upon the northern fields.

  Lauze shuddered as they moved steadily along the road.

  He thought there were rumors being whispered among the company as to where they were headed. However, he was sure they whispered most of all about the enemy they might encounter.

  Might encounter, he reminded himself.

  He hoped they would not.

  Goblins.

  It was like some kind of joke, an old woman's story to settle children down and not an actual military objective.

  But reports had come down. And now they were going up.

  To fight goblins if they found them.

  Of course the company had no inkling of the kinds of rumors running among the officer class. If they did, then discipline might have suffered.

  Some of the oldest veterans might have flat out refused.

  Lauze shuddered again.

  He and the captain both had heard that it would mean war if the beastly things were organizing.

  No one had ever heard of such a thing. Practically no one had ever even seen a goblin, and the idea that their clans would stop killing each other on sight and form up instead was ludicrous.

  Lauze had to admit, though, that there was nothing ludicrous about the fact that they had been ordered north to see if there were any truth to the scattered reports coming in.

  They were supposed to go in fast and go in quiet. Then they were supposed to get out of there and send word as quickly as they could.

  And that would require the company’s medic.

  Their stitcher was a gangly soldier, not much good in a fight, but once the dust settled he waded in, calm as night waters, and did what needed to be done.

  The corporal supposed he had sewed up every single member of the company at some point or another. Lauze had once seen him push a soldier's squirming intestines back in his gut after a barbarian's scimitar had opened him up wide. Crane never flinched. In one smooth motion, the skinny man popped up with a ridiculously small blade in hand and tapped it right below the barbarian's ear while the brute was still pulling back his great curved sword.

  That took the fight out of him as blood sprayed and Crane knelt down to his comrade in
arms.

  He just stuffed the man's guts back inside him like so many wiggling sausages, then set to sewing him up as fast as lightning without paying any mind to the barbarian who stumbled and went down not two paces away.

  But for this job, Lauze hoped a stitcher would not be necessary. Get in fast, get out fast.

  Instead, they needed Crane for his other talent. The man knew a few Words to stave off most infections when he was done putting soldiers back together, but better still, he knew how to speak into a cupped hand, then toss his words up into the air so that the wind would carry them to ears that could hear.

  Those ears were back at headquarters.

  Lauze hoped like hell there would not be any messages about goblins figuring out how to act like they did–soldiers, disciplined and ready to take their enemies out.

  'Cause that'd be bad ... real bad.

  Because that would mean war.

  The horses walked a leisurely pace while the company kept up with ease.

  They rounded a bend in the road and, sure enough, a man lay there, sprawled in the dirt.

  “Thay h'iss, Cap'n,” whispered Sprunk, although the corporal had no damned idea as to why the man whispered.

  The company came to a rustling halt without a word from the captain or the corporal. Stranger still, there was no low rumble of murmuring among the ranks.

  It was as if what they saw merited respect, and Lauze knew without looking that every head behind him was craning to see the body lying on the road.

  And then, like a revenant under a blood-ridden sky, the body stirred.

  “Whoa there, Maggie,” Lauze said to his horse. Unlike the soldiers in the company, she was coming up skittish all of a sudden.

  “Well, I could’a sworn he wuss a goner and all,” Sprunk stammered, but the captain made no comment.

  Instead, he dismounted, and with a quick nod to Lauze, the corporal slipped off Maggie’s back and the two officers went to the man struggling to get to his feet.

  “Pintuk thought so, too.”

  But no one was paying the scout any more attention.

  The captain strode up and took the fellow under one arm and Lauze followed suit on the other side as they steadied the man and helped him up.

  Then Lauze loosed his grip like a snake had bitten him. He took a step backward for good measure.