Fallen Victors

by Jonathan Lenahan

  He felt pieces of himself crumbling beneath the idea’s erosive nature. What would they ask him? Would they cast him from the group? He didn’t think so, but he wouldn’t put it past them either. Especially Slate. He lamented his momentary lack of control, for had it proved better, then he wouldn’t have accidentally shown his power to the world. But, then again, if he hadn’t used his power, he might be lying dead with the others, his jugular crushed.

  Isaac felt the sun’s warmth nosing its way through the branches long before it had risen overhead, and he closed his eyes in pleasure. He disliked the trees, where anybody could hide, but he took comfort in the road, the only stable fixture in this trip: still stone, still rough, and still uncomfortable.

  Alocar led, and though his shoulders hadn’t dipped, the lines in his face had deepened. Isaac found himself wanting to comfort the older man, tell him that it’d be okay, but Alocar carried with him a skin-tight shield of authority, and Isaac didn’t think he’d react kindly to somebody attempting to breach it. Slate rode far in the back, making his presence known only at mealtimes and when conversing with Teacher, whistling his only companion, a surprisingly tuneful sound that Isaac caught himself humming along with on occasion. They didn’t speak to each other, no more than the occasional insult thrown Isaac’s way. Crymson remained unchanged, but then, she’d hidden her emotions from the start, a mystery who’d snipped her loose threads, leaving nothing to unravel. Even now, she rode like the sole participant of a festival parade, people thronging the streets to watch her, judge her.

  He glanced towards Teacher, who rode with his perpetual air of blissful ignorance, though Isaac had seen it fall away when the giant laughed or smiled, a thing full of crooked teeth but also a thing full of happiness, more so than any of the others.

  “Where are all the others like us?”

  The stew bubbled. Isaac’s mentor put down the carrots and scratched his head. “Easy enough question to answer: they’re out there, hiding, just like we are.”

  “Will I ever meet any of them?”

  Isaac’s mentor picked up the carrots again. Began chopping, “I don’t think so, son.”

  “We’re a lonely people, aren’t we?”

  The chopping stopped, then continued. “We are, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have friends. Why, what about that girl next door?”

  Isaac laughed, though it didn’t carry two feet past his horse. Life, though painful, could often make the saddest memories seem humorous. As a child, a teenager, and beyond, he’d had few friends, almost none, and when he’d entered Whispers, Isaac had abandoned the concept altogether. But in five years spent in Whispers – essentially alone – his imagination had run free, and in his mind, he’d woven stories, fantastical, sometimes mixed with truth, stacked layer upon layer atop one another, never expecting them to entertain any but himself. Now, less than two months after his release, he’d found a use for those tales, and he’d made a friend, thanks to Whispers.

  And so he told stories to Teacher. He told him about the heroic prince who rescued his love from a dragon, and when the dragon blew flames on the prince, Isaac let a tongue of fire slide from his hands to light up the day, careful to hide his motions from the others. And behind Teacher’s eyes, Isaac spotted something, something that breathed and had a life of its own, so though Teacher remained silent, Isaac continued. Day after day, story after story, slowly but surely, Isaac built a bridge, and though incomplete, he could step on it, balance, walk a few steps before returning safely to dry land. And one day, soon, he hoped for the bridge to span the width of the chasm between himself and others, and when he could one day cross it, perhaps he might find somebody willing to meet him in the middle and skip rocks to pass an afternoon.

  “Want to hear a story?”

  Teacher nodded, letting his hands dangle, his horse following the path set before it by Alocar’s and Crymson’s.

  “Once, in a land far from here, there was a man made of fire.” Isaac wreathed both his hands in flames, making the outline of a man before he extinguished them. “That man loved a woman, but the woman was made from water, and so their love was forbidden, for they were unable to touch, for fear of death.”

  “But, you see, love isn’t only about the touch. Love is being around others, soaking in their conversations, understanding them better than you do yourself; sometimes love is giving voice to your feelings, and sometimes love is knowing, without words, that the other person loves you; but still, when you have a chance to proclaim your love, you tell the other person in as many ways as you know how, and both the man of fire and the lady of water understood this, and so their love grew and grew.” Slate appeared at Teacher’s side, but the story had Isaac in its throes, and he didn’t stop.

  “Every night, when the fire man’s village was smoldering, he’d sneak to the river and seat himself on its bank, far enough from the water that he couldn’t be doused but close enough to dip a toe. And when the water lady’s village quieted for the night, the current softening, she would make herself at home on a small rock not far from the bank. He’d point to the setting sun and describe how he’d made it for her, hammered from nails and bits of himself, catapulted into the sky as proof of his love, and she’d point to her creation, a solitary drop of water on a downward-sloping leaf, and though smaller, it was crafted to perfection, and they’d talk the night away, leaving only at dawn with the promise to return the next evening.” Teacher leaned in, half off his horse.

  “One night, the fire man’s village saw him sneaking away, and so they followed him. And the water lady’s village saw her leave their current, and so they followed her. And when they saw the two of them talking, the villages fell upon one another, for fire and water are mortal enemies.” Isaac lit up a closed fist, and then wrapped his other hand around it.

  “And though it pained them, the fire man joined with his brothers, and the water lady joined with her sisters, for they were loyal to their villages. When the groups attacked one another, many fell on either side, the fire people drowned, the water people evaporated, and in the middle of combat, the fire man ran into a water person, and he fell, his fire gone, but so strong was his fire that it vaporized the water person in front of him, and it was his water lady. They’d killed one another, and so they were no more, along with their love. But the sun still rose every morning, and drops of water still formed on the leaves, and while the villagers believed the two lovers dead, they were mistaken, because each morning when the sun rose, the drop of water would be there to greet him, formed anew from the river’s breath. Their great love? It was never lost. Only transformed.”

  Teacher’s face had dropped, but Isaac continued, “The thing is, people can learn, and so can fire and water people. By remembering the two’s love, they learned that not all things are what they seem, and so they grew to live alongside one another, in memory of their fallen friends and family, and though they still couldn’t touch, they could tell each other stories. And that’s why today, you may never see fire and water touching, but they’re always near each other, talking. Like when you cook for us at night.” Isaac nodded toward Teacher. “The fire boils the water, and the water allows us to eat. They work together, and because they work together, we get to eat your delicious soup.”

  Teacher smiled, his crooked teeth lost in the sight, for he looked to be the happiest man Isaac had ever seen.

  “Stupid story,” Slate said.

  Isaac looked at him, but then faced ahead again and didn’t respond. Now that he’d finished the story, its magic had vanished, and without it, he felt weak. Slate, seeing his target wouldn’t retort, pulled his horse to the back again, leaving Isaac and Teacher to ride alongside one another.

  Alocar yelled back at the group. “Another hour, and then we’ll make camp. Not much farther now.”

  They bedded down that night next to a tributary of the Idranian, a wooden bridge spanning its length. White froth ran beneath the bridge, and Teacher pointed to a jumping fish, just
clearing the water, the fading sun making a rainbow of its scales. Down the bank, Isaac spotted a bear, ambling away from them, one of the fish in its mouth. Teacher made soup that night, perhaps in honor of Isaac’s story, perhaps because he just liked soup. So close to Hammonfall, they’d broken out the rest of their supplies, and they feasted that night, the soup paired with dried fruits and other miscellaneous goods they’d saved in case of an emergency.

  In the morning, their supplies gathered and loaded on the poor mule, they stared across the rickety bridge, its frayed ropes and waterlogged boards making Isaac’s heart hammer in his chest.

  “We should lead our horses,” said Crymson, getting off and pulling her horse to the front.

  They crossed the bridge in a line, reins held in their hands, Crymson first, followed by Alocar, then Isaac, Teacher, and finally, Slate. It swayed side to side, and every few steps Isaac found a slat missing – gone, like it’d fallen into the river and drowned. The horses, as animals are wont to do, stepped nimbly over the gaps, but Isaac slowed his pace, choosing his footsteps carefully.

  Isaac had just passed the halfway mark when he heard a crash. He whirled. Teacher’s foot had gone straight through one of the boards, and he lay half in, half out the bridge, his horse screaming. The bridge rocked, threatening to dump everyone into the river.

  Alocar grabbed the bridge’s roped sides and held on. “Grab him!”

  “Shutthefuckup and get the fuck across, you old sack!” Slate stabbed the air with his finger.

  Isaac pushed his horse forward and reached for Teacher. Slate did the same, but Isaac was closer. He grabbed Teacher’s arm, hauled, and pulled him to safety, where Teacher lay panting, a trickle of blood oozing from the wound on his arm.

  They crossed the rest of the bridge without incident. Isaac turned to check on Teacher, whose left leg was soaked to the thigh, and he saw Slate looking at him with narrowed eyes, but the mercenary didn’t say a word.

  Isaac sighed. Two friends were probably too much to ask. For the rest of the morning, they walked, resting their horses, saving them for the last leg of the trip, but at afternoon, after a brief lunch, they mounted, Crymson and Alocar in front, Isaac and Teacher in the middle, and Slate in the back.

  “Want to hear another story?” Isaac asked Teacher.

  Teacher nodded, but before Isaac got more than three words out of his mouth, Slate put his hand on Teacher’s forearm. “I think that’s about enough stories from you, runt. Come on, Teach. Ride with me.” Slate dragged Teacher to the back, leaving Isaac to ride alone in the middle.

  Isaac felt his hands grow hot, but he let them flame out as a realization took its place. He looked back toward the two of them, where Slate was talking animatedly to Teacher, who laughed. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had a hard time making friends.

  Angras

  Unmasked, I sauntered down the streets of Tabernack, a fake mustache plastered to my upper lip and my chin held high to the world. Here, in the roar of the crowd, I couldn’t hear Angras, and that suited me just fine. He’d been a little too insistent for my liking lately.

  Criers shouted phrases that I’d jotted down in my safe house, and I felt myself smile at the way the little things were coming together. “New taxes! Breads gone up a silver, meat another two! New taxes!”

  In the middle of Prolifia’s economic downturn, rising prices and taxes didn’t make the Crown look good. Already, people were whispering. I walked another few blocks, this time making my way into the lower parts of Tabernack, where misplaced coin is a tragedy.

  A man stood on a makeshift pulpit, yelling, his pox-marked face red. “They can’t do this to us! We have children to support, families to feed, and food to buy. I for one won’t stand for this. Who’s with me!”

  The crowd hurrahed. A small scuffle broke out in the back, only to be put down by patrolling guards. Barely. This had been going on for a week now, quietly, at first, but with growing fervor.

  I continued walking, listening to my personal criers, and then hearing others who, oblivious, had joined to make a few extra pennies. “Meeting in the square! Meeting in the square! Tax meeting in the square in two days! Be there if you want to hear the discussions of the new taxes!”

  I ducked under an overhang, a momentary quiet.

  Let me ou – and then I was lost again to the crowd, and I could hear no more.

  Hammonfall:

  “The cruelest lies are often told in silence.”

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Alocar

  A few more hours left on the road, but Alocar paid the thought little attention. Body a marionette, pulled by instinct and intuition, his mind wandered, still caught in last week’s battle, consumed with a problem greater by far: he wasn’t half the man he’d used to be. In Dradenhurst, he’d been a retired general, subsisting on the dreams and memories of his younger self, yearning for a return to the road, for a chance to prove himself worthy of commemoration. Memories, however, change, the bad decreasing to specks and the good doubling in proportion, until every memory is a happy one, but reality had intruded, and Alocar had not been prepared to greet it.

  And as problems tended to do, they affected him in ways unseen. “Isaac, how’s our wounded friend?”

  Isaac waved his hand in the air, palm down. The little man rarely spoke, and thus far nobody had mentioned the beam that had speared the axe-wielder, but Alocar made a mental note to speak with him about it soon, away from the others. It never did anybody good to make public something that they wished to keep secret; in those situations, people tended to lie, become defensive, even attack. But get them alone, where they thought nobody would judge, and things came to light that otherwise might have stayed buried forever underneath a mountain of insecurities and fears.

  His horse’s hooves ate away the miles, bites gone bit by bit. The battle fog hadn’t yet left him – couldn’t leave him – not until he came to terms with this new reality, this person he’d become against his will. Alocar knew frailty visited all men, but it had come to roost in his body unannounced, or maybe, in his arrogance, he’d refused to admit it. His skills, once sharpened alongside Prolifia’s best, had fallen prey to old age and brittle bones, to lax muscles and slow reflexes. In his days as general, he’d prided himself on his ability to do anything that his men could do. Could one be a leader in truth if he couldn’t do what the simplest of his men performed with ease? Would he even be suited to command anymore? Was he suited to command now?

  His bulging stomach brushed the pommel of his saddle, every jiggling step a reminder of this weak shell to which he’d found himself chained.

  “Finally,” Slate said.

  Alocar squinted, but couldn’t see past the trees. Minutes later, he saw Hammonfall, and he cursed his failing vision as the horses plodded their way toward the town. Once a small fishing village, Hammonfall had grown to middling size – thanks to the King’s Road - preying on the travelers passing through its midst on their way to other, more glamorous cities.

  He glanced toward the wounded man tied across the mule’s back. Winced. The burden of leadership fell to him, and he had let it crumple him, saved only by Slate’s instincts. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  “Isaac.” He heard the horse trot up beside him. “Ride ahead and scout out the nearest healer. We’ll drop him off there. Oh,” his voice dropped an octave, “I don’t think I need to remind you, but keep a low profile. I doubt this town is as friendly as we’d like it to be.”

  Isaac nodded and disappeared into the dimly lit evening air.

  “Slate. Crymson.” He heard the sound of hooves again, but only Crymson pulled up beside him. Slate lounged in the back, sunk into his saddle. Alocar sighed. Stubbornness could be a useful trait, but only a fool remained stubborn out of spite. He reined in his horse and gestured for Crymson to do the same. Slate and Teacher caught up, but didn’t slow.

  “Slate, you and Crymson go on ahead. If anybody got away from that carnage in the woods a few d
ays ago, they’ll have reported our whereabouts. But they’ll be looking for a group of five, so we should be somewhat safe. Rent us a room. One will do, and then Teacher and I will come after you.”

  “Teach comes with me,” said Slate, his voice flat. Alocar grimaced. “Fine. I’ll find Isaac and meet you at the inn. Try the Woodsman’s. The keeper may not be the friendliest, but he’s at least the honorable sort.”

  Slate didn’t reply, just continued riding, Teacher at his side.

  Crymson hung back, her eyes searching Alocar’s for a brief moment before she jerked her horse’s head around and trotted it after Slate’s. Crew gone, the mule stood as Alocar’s only company. Fitting.

  A half-mile of silence. They passed a rough patch where weather had eroded the stone in hopes of turning an innocent’s ankle, and the prisoner moaned as the mule scrabbled to find its footing. The trees, never dense to begin with, began to fade away, leaving the land exposed, small hills rising to either side. Horses, mules, and men all followed the dark road, but Alocar’s mind followed one darker.

  He pulled the mule up next to him, looking at the wounded man they’d tied to its back. Crymson had broken off the arrow and washed the entry point at the Idranian’s tributary, but the man had lapsed into unconsciousness and then grown feverish as infection had set in.

  After the battle, Alocar had wanted to bury the dead, but he didn’t think that the group would stand for it, and a leader knows how far he can push it, so Alocar hadn’t mentioned the idea. He sighed again. It wasn’t proper. Men who died in battle needed burials, more so than other men because they’d died unprepared, for all men who hold a sword consider themselves beyond death. Only when you dipped a hand in your own blood did you realize that immortality was reserved for nobody but the gods and the make-believe.