The young lieutenant found me, approaching me with a stone face fiercer than any scowl.
“You, come with me,” he said solemnly. Eyes touched me again as I stood from the bench; Captain Gastro’s mirthful smirk set me on edge. I followed the lieutenant from the mess deck, going into a dark and narrow walkway. “What’s your name?” he said, his back in front of me.
“Darwin Valkyrie. Where are we going?”
“You don’t belong with the other trainees.”
“I do something wrong?”
“Depends,” he answered, stopping at a fork in the walkway and looking down either direction. We turned right.
“Your performance in the first trial inspired the general to bump you several levels. There hasn’t been a successful turn out like that, since... my time. Whether you’re ready for this skip will be exciting to watch.” We went up several flights of stairs and turned often.
“What’s your name,” I came to ask him.
“Lieutenant Novalez,” he said, stopping. He turned back with an inquisitive smirk, looking me straight in the eyes. “But you can call me, Cassidy.” He held out his hand. I shook it firmly. “Good stuff out there. You’ve got skill. Good luck on the next one. You'll need it.” He knocked on the seamless wall. I hadn’t realized it was a door until I found its steel latch. Cassidy walked away going down the hall and disappearing around a corner. I half smiled.
I came shaking back into reality—like I’d leaped out of a nightmare in a cold sweat. The decade-old memory of my first battle trial ebbed away. So much had happened since then, countless unsettling adversities I had seen at the eastern war-front while serving as a lieutenant in the White Fox Militia. Somehow the thought had just crossed my mind that, at twenty-five years old, I’d seen more horror than one of the immortal elven soldiers after half a millennium’s wars and terror. So much tragedy and it was getting worse as time swept by.
Men were hauled off like pigs to the slaughter before I came into the world—long before my mother had even thought to name me, Darwin. Vail had emerged beyond the dawn of a new era. From hidden corners sprawled creatures known as Abyssians—horned, atrocious entities of death with strength and terror more profound than any race—Ruling or Lesser. There was once peace, I suppose, but evil and darkness ravaged the world as if the Superiors of Ezilum condemned it all. So much war... all for what purpose? I couldn’t wrap my mind around why the so-believed makers and governors allowed such damnation, but it was too soon. My upbringing was amid the terrible climax of the eastern war when all hope had faded. It was a curse to live in this age; better to have never been born.
Since the ascension of Abyssians, conflict had raged for a century. And in that near century, war had ushered in our annihilation. As the Vanik Isles in the east spiraled into chaos and unparalleled fear, they came to ruin. The monsters had demolished many kingdoms, and nations—many lives lost. Humanity had relinquished alliances for despair. It was in Doctrine we looked to find understanding but to no avail. Our failed quest for enlightenment had only furthered us toward a dark fate.
I sat in a holy place, at the head of old LeGarrison Cathedral. Forestation and layers of dust and debris in every nook and cranny had decayed the archaic house of Superion worship. Hung from cracked ceiling beams were cobwebs large enough to capture squirrels if they could hold them. Time had bruised the walls with age, and jade blotches had mottled them. A giant elm tree leaned and soared behind the altar, burgeoning out of a gaping hole in the dome ceiling. Patches of grass had sprouted through ruined tile.
Lifting my heel onto a pew sloped on broken legs, I set an arm over a bent knee and leaned back into a sigh. A hood formed from a half-cloak fell from my brow letting the light that lanced through the ceiling grace my eyes. My chocolate leather jacket, with its many pockets and zippers, loosened around my aching torso by my posture. Several crossing belts at my waist and the ivory sash they cinched were still uncomfortably tight around my slim, patterned trousers which tapered near the cuffs, hugging my ankle boots snugly. Dust and sand dulled their handsomely pointed steel toe caps. Having trekked many leagues across the treacherous Endless Desert, my Militia uniform, handsome as it was, only pained my swollen body.
My unplanned stop was due to a dull ache in my back and shoulders. Those damned tattoos again. On my chest there were symmetrical, black, zigzagging, and curving lines that reached over my collarbone on either side and down my back, ending beneath each shoulder blade. I was born with them, and ever since, they throbbed painfully, suffering me increasingly over the years. “Your cries were loud as a baby,” I could still hear my mother say. Every doctor I’d ever visited could never make sense of their mystery. I learned to live with it, focusing on enduring until the painful spell ended. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. It helped sometimes.
When it ended, my sight fell for a moment on the sheathed broadsword that lay beside me. I grasped it and grimaced, standing woozily upright. The journey had been a long one, and I was dreadfully tired. As I rolled my neck in cracks, a swift shadow crossed the rays of light pouring from a row of hollow windows to my left. My eyes darted and winced. I was seeing things. But, when the sound of a ticking sprint passed the dull scarlet floor behind me, I knew something was there. My ears never deceived me. The movement became a crescendo of wild beating.
Instinctually, I whirled to the center aisle behind me, spotting a pack of quadruped beasts in a staggered row ahead of me—a prevailing evil that often trespassed onto holy ground of late. They were pale, skeletal creatures; their faces hideously flat, sloped, and lumped with drooping flesh, pink as undercooked meat. Manes of barbed tentacles moved behind their heads like reptiles. Underbites of small thorny teeth filled their gaping mouths, and where there should have been noses, there were only slits. They were ten yards away and advancing quickly.
“Sifters,” I groaned irritably. The relentless pursuers had spawned from the flesh of greater Abyssians, likely nasrogh or worse. Their sole purpose was scouting for civilizations and devouring souls for their masters. Though there were much worse enemies in the world, they were nasty beasts whose presence only meant one thing. The looming horde had set eyes on Memoria, confirming my most unsettling suspicions. I readied myself, tightening the grip on the hilt of the blade. Trilling shrieks echoed from six thirsty jaws of these lesser Abyssians that had crawled unseen into the cathedral—as if they had appeared from thin air.
In seconds, a single sifter came into the broad front of LeGarrison—the alpha. It bound into the air, stretching its body into a menacing lunge, its claws spread. I faced it, unsheathing my sword with a concise pull, and held it in front of me: a trained stance with both hands clenched around the hilt of an upward-pointed sword, just millimeters from my eyes. A deep calming breath settled any apprehension and steeled my every nerve. I looked forward with a sharp gaze, my jaws knotting, “Not today.”
I lashed the sword forward, a flawlessly timed movement that sliced the beast into a shower of Black Salt. There was a pause. Then cringing shrieks pierced the air. Like wolves, the rest came for me.
I ran forward into a salvo of flying and sparkling claws. I knew just what to do with the menacing pack—knowledge well learned after many battles. The proof was in the scrapes and bruises, and the giant bite mark on my left shoulder long since healed. Countless battle wounds marked me, some lethal enough to have severed limbs. I’d worn most, though the Militia sprites could have treated them quickly with magic. My scars were an honor—a testament to warrior I was. And magic, I wanted nothing to do with, nor the futilely worshipped creators from which it came. The most severe lacerations, I’d had no choice but to allow the supernatural to spare me from the fatality. The disabling injuries would have left me permanently mangled and unfit to be the soldier I was bred to be.
Wildly and clumsily the sifters fought, independent in their attacks, though they traveled in groups. It was their preeminent downfall; the foundation of my uprising. They competed for souls
, often hissing, and snapping their fangs at one another, vying to appease their masters with the spoils of their triumph. Only through desperation did they ever fight as one. The sifters themselves were enemies to their own until threatened by a worthy adversary who united them. The danger of their solidarity would cost me my life.
LeGarrison quickly became a slaughterhouse as I deflected attacks and swung my blade throughout what seemed like a never-ending massacre. My sword was a winding and twirling gleam in the air, slicing into lean and bony limbs with expert precision. A prized asset my soul would have been to their masters, but I had no plans on letting that happen. I was unrelenting, wielding movements my training had nurtured into instinct, never giving a strike more than needed to do the task. I was made to butcher these demons.
A sifter jumped high from a pew as I yanked my knife from the belt hidden beneath my cloak, hurled it, and knocked the creature from the air like a diving bird.
Endlessly they came. The sifters' speed rivaled the agility with which I cut them down. But, by the time I’d halved their numbers I was in a dangerous rhythm that hastened their devastation. I sliced a sifter across its pitched face, and the next one tackled me. We went down hard, revolving back on the broken grounds before the altar; trampling over planks and beams fallen from the gapped ceiling. A previous struggle had wrecked everything around us. The sifter’s sloped, jabbing head came for my face, meeting my fist with its bony jaw. Quick swipes marked my forearms and ripped into the lining of my jacket. It was impossible to miss its barbed mane while rolling around like a wild brute. I had to escape the predicament before the others came. I stabbed it everywhere I could manage until the sifter finally withered from existence.
The next was on me faster than I would have liked, but I shot to my feet with a whipping blade that caught its face, bringing a cold and quick death.
Three more.
The sifters circled me patiently. A mistake. Their caution would cause their end. They had foolishly given in to instinct, believing themselves predators with a prize nearly in their grasp. The shortsighted notion couldn't be further from the truth. They were the prize. I was the predator.
They came for me, two at a time. Quick steps came behind me, then a demonic howl. With a spin, thrust, and blink, the sword was deep through the sifter’s mouth, protruding from the back of its head—a muting death.
I snatched free my sword and spun into the next kill: a neck stab. Then I held my weapon before the last petrified enemy that sounded a loud, desperate call. A moment later, it turned to flee. This sifter couldn’t be allowed to escape and deliver to its master what it had carried. It would mean the destruction of whatever information it had consumed. I tossed my sword into an underhanded grip. Like a javelin, I hurled it into the Abyssian’s back, catching its galloping corpse mid-stride. The sharp end pierced its spine and brought it down like a doe—a dead shot. It lay slumped, the blade standing upright from its body. The sifter faded to salt as I retrieved my weapon.
All was still.
I scanned the cathedral, carefully searching for more. All that stayed of the sifters was the Black Salt that not even the breeze cared to carry. Before leaving, I looked to the altar where a towering statue of a robed man stood before the looming elm. He had long hair, his arms open before him, welcoming an empathic embrace. He was the renowned Ruler of the Superiors and of all mankind: Galothaia, Superior of order, judgment, and faith. On either side of him kneeled two Arkangels: Airius and Adara—brothers clad in armor with gauntlets wrapped around the hilts of downward-pointed swords. They were younger versions of Galothaia himself, perceived as his sons rather than guardians created in his image.
I scoffed and spat, wanting to slice the Superior’s reaching arms from his shoulders.
You would extend your hands now? Open your arms? You call us all to come to you for guidance... for aid? When and for whom have you provided? You've allowed Abyssians to claim even children, and they wailed your name. They’d have done better to plea for Death’s mercy. Even in your house, you allow Abyssians to do what they will. You’d understand if the unquenchable beasts sought to devour you.
Unable to stomach the sight of the altar any longer, I headed out quickly, through the unhinged doors of that godforsaken, dilapidated shack. Into the junkyard of the Lucreris outskirts, I went, my tiresome trek continuing. Best to leave before wrath got the better of me.
Black Salt Plague
I stepped along the sand, my boots sinking with every stride. I took a last look at the forgotten cathedral and started along a path. The Outlands of Lucreris was a place I once called home. I seldom visited. It had expanded since I had last visited, three years ago.
As I stepped beyond the butte of a place of Superion worship, yellow air hit my bronze skin, a telltale sign of the season. As far ahead as I could see, the scattered town of my adolescence had unified and expanded across the desert heap.
I held my blade at ease across my shoulders as I unwound. Familiar sights and warming peace came. Seeing my city safe was a relief. The Abyssian Horde was still a long way east warring in the Vanik Isles off the edge of the continent. The little groups nearby were unlikely to attack in blazing daylight. I went ahead to my homecoming.
It was a strange notion to imagine what the people of my town would speak of me. Much had happened in three years. What would I say for myself when their questions riddled my patience? I was a man of few words with an undying thirst for the fight; a free-spirited lone wolf. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to become a noble warrior who protected humankind from all things evil—a naïve dream that changed when I learned of war’s curse on the soul. A lieutenant of the White Fox Militia, I was a man of six feet in stature, made of a soldier’s build: scarred, bruised, and rippling with iron muscles sculpted by a decade of rigorous conditioning. My hair was short, black, and waved, and a stubble beard shadowed my squared jawline. The young boy the townsfolk had once known was entirely gone.
An aroma of sandalwood and cinnamon wafted toward me as I wiped sweat from my straightened hairline. Only a little further through the old outskirts. Adobe, and bricks of ruined homes littered the land. Depressions and fissures had sliced the ground into various strips. A thin veil of sand covered the rough ivory stone. Thankfully, ample planks bridged the gaps, even if they delayed my journey into midday. Further north, the city tidied into its exceptional parts. I found myself in the marketplace before long.
It was a disarrayed accumulation of merchants, crowds, dancers, and jesters frolicking in the sweltering heat under the beaming sun. Flutes and lutes played bouncy, festive melodies. Carts of delectable cuisine blended with the aroma, thrusting me into tranquil nostalgia. Ending up where you intended to go was never easy. Everything was just as I had remembered. As I looked around, I took a deep breath and paused at the moment. It was almost bothersome—the peace. The Lucreris people were all so carefree, basking in their ignorance, oblivious of the pandemonium that terrorized the east. I felt out of place, but it was always like this when I set foot back into the desert-city. It was worth savoring, though short-lived when a heavy voice shouted, and someone abruptly shouldered me.
“Hey, watch it!”
I turned to a familiar face. “Bane?”
The stout man shook and froze, dropping a crate of tomatoes. Fear widened his eyes as I traced his gaze to my shoulder-set blade. I sheathed it in the scabbard hung against my right thigh, disarming the burly man’s dismay. “Seen a ghost, Bane?”
He squinted and cupped a hand over his brow. Then the giant leaped with realization, wrapping his massive arms around me. “Darwin!” The dirty white shirt that covered his spilling belly rubbed against my cloak. He was a longtime merchant with a dark beard and a balding scalp.
“Bane... you’re squeezing,” I panted, trying to gather breath.
“Sorry ‘bout that, lad. Where’ve you been, boy? Haven’t seen you in years.”
“I’ve been around and about. How’s old Luc been treatin
g you? Swell, I hope.”
He wiped sweat beads from his temples. “Swell, swell indeed.”
“Business as usual, I see. This place doesn’t look a day older than it was when I was fifteen. Where’s the time gone?”
“I live for this market, boy. Couldn’t leave if I wanted to,” he chuckled. “You don’t look like you’ve aged much, either.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself—not a day over fifty.”
The merchant grimaced. “I’m forty-two.”
I was silent, letting the unintended insult pass. Bane picked up his crate, and I followed him back to his cart further on the eastern perimeter of the market. “So, what brings you back to this ol’ haunt, eh? The city’s a sunbath in this dreaded season. Not much vacationing to do in an oven.”
“I’ve acquired some leave time. It was best to use it now,” I said. The truth might as well have been a mallet to the ear rather than words.
“Oh,” said the merchant airily. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re not dead—war and all.”
“Me... too,” I said—or, asked.
“You and my boy, Kato, used to help me with all of this work when you were young, remember?” He fit the crate between the oranges and mangos. “I’m hoping to get some ripe pomegranates this year from Southwood like the ones we always used to pick.”
“How is... Kato?” I was reluctant to ask. Tremendous guilt struck me, but I felt wrong not asking.
A proud grin came over the merchant’s face. “He’s become quite the man—got himself a homey, little cottage, which is good because his second little one is on the way. They could use the space. He works in the butcher’s shop. My wife and I couldn’t have asked for a better son. We hope our other two little buggers grow up just the same.”
I’d missed much. I didn’t feel sorry or sad, though. I was numb—detached—a byproduct of my experiences abroad. “It’s good news,” I came to say.
Enigma: Awakening Page 2