Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  The envoy stooped slightly toward her. “Elana,” he said, softly, “you have resisted evil. The King wishes to honor you by having you serve him. Will you aid him?”

  “If I can,” she said in an awed voice.

  “Would you take the crown off that thing and bring it here?”

  “Y-yes.” She walked forward and stopped a few strides away from the creature’s head.

  The jaws slid against each other and the beast spoke. “You cannot use her.” The baziliarch’s words had only a fraction of their old power. “She too sinned.”

  Merral saw Elana blush.

  The envoy turned to the baziliarch, his head slightly tilted, as if puzzling over something. “I have no record of that.”

  “It happened.” There was an indignant note in the waning voice.

  “If she has let the King deal with her sin, then it is erased. That is what forgiveness is all about. It is his record, not yours, that counts.” His voice took on the tone of an infinite sadness. “But you never did understand forgiveness, did you? Now be still.” The sword moved in the air.

  The head slumped to the ground.

  “Elana, take his crown and bring it to me.”

  The girl took a deep breath and stepped forward until her knees were almost touching the closed mouth. She lifted the gleaming silver circlet off the monstrous head and took a sharp step back.

  A new series of sharp creaking sounds came from the beast’s body and as they sounded, Elana scampered back to the envoy. The baziliarch’s body quivered along its entire length almost as if it was shriveling up. It seemed to have become something feeble, now only a husk of what it once was.

  The envoy took the crown. “Thank you. I shall give it to the one who deserves it—the King of all Kings.” He held it up for a moment, as if surveying it, and then tucked it inside his coat where, in a way that defied all geometry and physics, it vanished.

  The envoy turned back to Elana. “Your task is not yet complete. Take up the enemy’s sword and slay him with it.”

  Elana turned to Merral, her eyes wide with unease.

  “Best obey him,” Merral said and wondered if he had ever said anything wiser.

  She shook herself and slowly walked to where the baziliarch’s sword lay and picked it up, her fingers struggling to grasp the strange hilt. Then, carrying it awkwardly, she stepped to the segmented neck. It was nearly the width of her waist, but Merral now saw that it was very insubstantial—a flimsy shell of a carapace that covered a strange nothingness.

  Elana raised the blade, looked at the envoy as if for reassurance, seemed to find it, then closed her eyes and struck down with the blade. It crashed through the dry husk of the skin, until it rang against the stone flags of the square. Dust flew around and the neck collapsed in on itself, as if it were made of nothing more than stiffened paper. The body began to crumble as if some extraordinary accelerated process of woodworm were at work.

  Cheering broke out from among the people at the edges of the square. Merral saw the burly figure of his uncle Barrand break free of the crowd and, with a clumsy gait, dash over to his daughter.

  Elana dropped the hilt, stared at her handiwork, looked around at the cheering crowd. Clearly overwhelmed, she ran to her father and hugged him.

  “Stand away,” the envoy commanded.

  Merral stepped back. In the heart of the fast-crumbling carcass he saw a lingering darkness, a great formless shadow.

  “Now,” said the envoy raising his sword high, his gaze on the dry, crumbling carcass, “I send you to the flames—the first, but not the last, of your kind to go there, in the name of the King Eternal.”

  Tall red flames, flickering with a soundless energy, rose up around the creature. At first, Merral thought it was the beast itself that was alight; then he realized that the flames were burning around it. He felt no sensation of heat.

  There was another gesture from the envoy and he uttered words that Merral could not make out. Suddenly, all around the creature, the stone slabs that floored the square seemed to fade away to be replaced by a red flaming gulf like the mouth of a vast furnace.

  Slowly, and then with an ever-greater speed, the baziliarch’s corpse with the shadow at its core tumbled in and fell down. The sword with the serrated blade tumbled after it. The last glimpse Merral had of the baziliarch was of a black worm writhing into an infinite depth of fire.

  Abruptly, the flames disappeared and the gray stone flooring of the square returned.

  The envoy tucked his sword away and the remaining light about him vanished. He turned to the cluster of soldiers in front of the hall and beckoned someone over. Merral saw Vero walk forward and approach the envoy. Together, they walked a dozen paces away and the envoy spoke with Vero. What he said, Merral could not hear, but he saw his friend lower his head as if he was being rebuked.

  Then suddenly, the envoy strode back to Merral.

  “Thank you,” Merral said, trying to avoid looking into the awesome darkness of the face hidden under the hat. “I didn’t deserve your help.”

  “Deserve? You never did. That’s what grace is about.”

  Merral bowed his head in silence.

  “Commander, the enemy’s accusation was not without foundation. You did disobey the Lord’s counsel. Your repentance has been accepted; the sin is a past matter. But the results of your actions remain. These are not so easily dealt with.” He paused. “Now, there are matters to be dealt with. Tomorrow, you must return to Isterrane. Be prepared to endure what is inflicted on you there. Do not resist. Endure.” He gestured to the walls and the gate where the Krallen were perched in silent and immobile array. “I will take from your enemies their powers of communication and coordination. They have known the emotion of hatred; they will now know terror. Now, cleanse the town.”

  He raised his hand high. “Az leyama, az layakeen!” he pronounced in a loud ringing voice, and in his words Merral sensed an ancient and great authority.

  At his command, the creatures on the walls and by the gate seemed to be seized by a collective shiver. They turned and began to slip away. As they did, some collided with each other.

  The envoy gently tapped Merral’s shoulder. “Commander, be about your work. We will meet again.”

  Then he was gone.

  Merral shook himself, handed the flagstaff to Vero, and clapped his hands for silence. “Men and women,” he cried, his heart overflowing with joy. “The forces of the Dominion are broken! Have the refuge opened. Let everyone who can find a sword or gun and seek out our enemies and destroy them! The town is to be cleansed.”

  He paused. “Soldiers, gather at the gate. Snipers, kill those slitherwings. Warden Enatus, have the bells rung.”

  There were yells of approval and wild cheers.

  Merral picked up his sword, took back the flag, and with men and women gathering behind him, walked to the open gates through which the Krallen had fled.

  There, as the great bells began to peal in jubilation, he paused and gazed around. Overhead, the clouds and the stars appeared. He scented a new freshness in the air. Below, much of the town was lit by the ruddy glow of fires while elsewhere the lighting was still on. In the uneven illumination, he could see gray forms fleeing down the streets in a chaotic manner that he found extraordinarily satisfying.

  There was a brief snap of rifle shots and something tumbled out of the sky toward the lake.

  I have had another chance. Merral gave thanks to the Most High.

  Suddenly, across by the airport, he saw lightning—a succession of brilliant yellow flashes that lit up the lake.

  “What’s that, sir?” Lloyd muttered as dull booms echoed through the streets.

  It took a moment for Merral to realize the answer. “That, Sergeant, is Colonel Thuron attacking the rear of the Dominion army. It would seem that he too has rebelled against Clemant.”

  “The icing on the cake,” added Vero quietly from just behind them.

  “What?”

  “Nev
er mind.”

  Merral fired a flare into the sky and as its green light cascaded around them, he cried out, “Advance!”

  31

  By three in the morning they had cleared the town of Krallen and the remaining Dominion forces had fled across the causeway in disarray to where, on the far side, they were destroyed by Frankie’s troops. As he waited for the engineers to stabilize the broken part of the causeway so his soldiers could safely cross, Merral walked back to his home.

  En route, he came across four young men, wearing dirty jerkins and carrying swords. They were peering inside doorways with a bright handlight. When Merral saw that their pale faces were daubed with camouflage, he knew who they were.

  “The Hanston Road—” he paused—“the Hanston Road Irregulars. What news?”

  “Commander!” There were four salutes. They were barely recognizable as the teenagers of only a few hours earlier.

  They looked at each other, their expressions a mixture of pride and grief.

  “Sir, we got twenty-four goblins. Well, twenty-three really. One got away.”

  “He weren’t going far,” added the smallest one. “Not wiv’ a leg off.”

  “Well done. But weren’t there six of you?”

  They looked at each other and their newfound maturity and confidence suddenly vanished. They looked down at the ground.

  “Bill and Hass got it,” said the tallest. “When we was . . . retreating.”

  Merral looked away and blinked. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I really am.”

  “Yeah. We are too. . . . We are all kinda gutted.” Then the young man looked up. “Still, sir, we gotta do our job, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” Merral replied. “We have to.”

  There were lights on inside his house and he could see that someone had dragged the Krallen bodies out into the street where, devoid of any menace, they lay looking like a heap of rubbish. Leaving Lloyd outside, Merral walked in to find his mother and father, their clothing dirty and stained, sitting on the ripped sofa in the general room, holding hands.

  “Hello, Son,” his father said in a matter-of-fact way. He waved a hand that seemed to take in the shattered furniture, the broken ornaments, the burned walls, and the drying puddles of silver fluid on the floor. “Bit of a mess this really.” His face brightened. “But we will fix it, won’t we, dear?” He squeezed his wife’s hand.

  Merral’s mother, her face pale with exhaustion, gave a mild but contented sigh and leaned against her husband. “Yes, Stefan,” she said slowly. “We will. It’s only things. And the neighbors will help.”

  “I was just passing,” Merral said, feeling awkward, as if he had intruded on something private. “I thought I’d drop in just to see if you were all right.”

  His parents looked at each other and Merral sensed that in their weary gaze they said much. His mother, stroking a disordered and dusty strand of silvery hair, smiled. “We’re fine, thank you. . . . But no, Stefan, you say it.”

  His father toyed slowly with his tangled beard. “Why, thank you, Lena. I could say a lot. I really could. But no, we have realized something together.” He puckered his brow as if thinking deeply. “It’s just that in the old days, we never had to work at what we are. How can I say it? What we were and all the good that we had we just took for granted. It was always there. Now though, now that evil has come back, we realize that we need to work at it. It takes an effort.” He frowned almost as if his own analysis puzzled him. “Does that make sense?” he asked while Merral’s mother nodded.

  “Yes, Father,” Merral said. “We need to fight for what’s right now, in every area.”

  “Thought so. Pity it took me so long to see it.”

  “Us,” his mother added with a quiet insistence.

  “Us, indeed. Anyway, time for bed.” His father stifled a yawn. He rose and then gently helped Merral’s mother up from the sofa. “I guess you still have things to do?”

  “I have a lot to do,” Merral said softly. “And a long way to go.”

  “I thought so,” his father said. “Will we see you soon?”

  “No. I think not.”

  “I see.” There was a note of acceptance in his father’s voice.

  Then striving—and failing—to keep away tears, they hugged and kissed each other.

  Dawn was breaking when Merral met Frankie Thuron where the causeway joined the airport road. Utterly weary, his garments smeared with Krallen fluid, Merral flung his chipped and dented sword down, took off his helmet, threw down his gloves, and embraced Frankie with aching and blistered hands.

  About them, the last Krallen were being cut down.

  “The Krallen are destroyed,” Frankie said, rubbing dirt off his face and staring round with evident bewilderment at the piles of ashen forms all around. “And all the other things.”

  Merral bowed his head and gave thanks to God. Then he looked to where, rising out of the early morning mist, the spired and towered mound of Ynysmant glinted in the dawn light amid coils of smoke.

  “So, Frankie, what’s the status?”

  “My people are repairing the airstrip,” Frankie replied, gesturing stiffly with his synthetic hand. “The first fliers are on their way to pick up the wounded.” He paused and gave a dismembered Krallen limb a thoughtful kick. “Commander—”

  “Formerly,” Merral interrupted. “I no longer have that rank.”

  “That’s the thing.” Frankie dropped his voice. “It’s all nonsense. Clemant’s gone mad. The soldiers and I are happy to march on Isterrane and remove him, if that’s what you want.”

  Merral sighed. “No. I don’t. I will not encourage civil war. Stay here, Frankie. Move the troops to Ynysmant; they will receive you gladly. Help them with the rebuilding. Don’t do anything unless Clemant attacks you.”

  “As you wish. But what will you do?”

  Merral stared westward over the piles of the Krallen and the advancing soldiers for some moments before answering. “I must do what must be done. I will go to Isterrane.”

  “But he will arrest you. There’s a warrant out for you.”

  “Then I will let myself be arrested.”

  An hour later, as they were loading the flier with the worst of the wounded, Vero came over. He wore his dark glasses and walked stiffly.

  Merral took him aside. “Vero,” he said, “I need to go to Isterrane and face Clemant.”

  Vero nodded. “I will come as well.” He paused. “Are you curious about what the envoy said to me?”

  “A little. But I have been . . . preoccupied.”

  Vero smiled and then, as if embarrassed, looked at his feet. “He said, among other things, ‘Verofaza, cleverness is not the same as wisdom.’ And ‘I warn you, the results of your scheming and Merral’s disobedience are about to come together.’”

  “What do you understand by that?”

  “Very little. But it alarms me. He also warned me that I would need to hide for a while. That was sort of an afterthought.”

  “I see.”

  “So, I think I will sneak off the flier, find some space down in the foundations, and stay out of sight for a bit. Anya and Azeras are already there and I have arranged for Betafor to be shipped there in her box.”

  “Good. Will you take Lloyd too?”

  “If you think that’s a good idea.”

  “Please. I have to do this on my own.”

  Merral fell asleep on the flight and only awakened upon landing at Isterrane. Out of the window, he saw medical staff milling around the flier and, as he watched, a dozen blue-uniformed police pushed their way through.

  He glanced around the compartment. Lloyd and Vero had already left.

  Merral rose from his seat and, with resignation, walked down to the front doorway of the flier.

  “Merral D’Avanos,” said a brusque man dressed in blue at the top of the stairway. “You are under arrest. Where are Sentinel Enand and Sergeant Enomoto?”

  “I have no idea.”

 
“Come with us.”

  The police removed Merral’s diary and escorted him to the terminal building. As he walked with them, Merral saw two white-masked medical orderlies rush past him with a stretcher bearing a figure whose slim form was almost entirely covered by a white sheet. As they headed toward an ambulance, Merral noticed that one of the orderlies had a massive physique and short blond hair and that the limp hand that hung down from the sheet was dark skinned.

  In the terminal, two policemen took Merral to a bare, windowless office, ordered him to sit in front of a desk, and then stood behind him.

  After a few minutes, Clemant, wearing a neat dark suit, walked in and without a word sat behind the desk. He frowned at the desk, straightened its contents, and then looked up with what Merral felt was an oddly detached expression.

  “Thank you for not making a fuss,” he said in a peculiarly emotionless tone.

  Merral said nothing.

  Clemant gazed at his fingers for a moment before looking up with his deep-set dark eyes. “Things are happening. The secrets of the Dove of Dawn are being worked out. What we have found means we must act.” He paused and corrected himself. “That I must act.”

  He stared at Merral. “I could use you, Captain. You could be an asset.” He stroked the hair over his ears. “But I don’t think I could trust you to cooperate.”

  “Probably not. What about the hostages?”

  “The hostages?” Clemant seemed caught off guard. “Ah yes. At the peninsula. Zak is taking care of that. He has immobilized the shuttle. There are plans. . . .” His voice tailed off in a way that suggested the matter did not interest him.

  There was silence.

  “No,” Clemant said after a few moments, “you wouldn’t cooperate. Quite the wrong sort.” There was a soft insistence in his words as if he was delivering a verdict to himself.

  Then he gave a little shake of his head and looked hard at Merral. “The verdict is this: you are hereby relieved from all military duty and stripped of all rank. That—rather disgusting—uniform will be taken from you. You will revert back to your Forester title. To avoid questions, no formal announcement will be made for some time. We will simply say that you are on sick leave. Stress and overwork are only to be expected after a battle.”