Amorlia

by Chris Wichtendahl

  Truth, Loss and Ill-Gotten Gains

  No sooner had the black airship left the sky above the village than green music heralded the arrival of the Ki-Mon. There was much rejoicing at her safe return, and she was eager to report fully on her travels to her mother. She looked strangely at Kael as he approached. “Before I do anything else,” she said, “there is something I need to tell you.” She then launched into an abridged retelling of the tale she heard at the Signalman’s feet, as well as the cruel choice presented her. “So, unfortunately, I cannot say what transpires behind the thorn wall,” she said to Artemis, “though Qi should be able to enlighten you, should she survive.” She spared a glance for Michra, who had become visibly worried when her mentor did not also appear. Artemis was only half-listening, attending more to Kael, who looked as though the wind had been knocked out of him. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, laying a gentle hand on his arm. He nodded, then shook his head. When he looked at her, his eyes were wet, “I always assumed I was the last of my kind,” he said, “And when you told me what you learned in Faery, I knew it to be true. But now,” he looked down at the sun tattooed on his chest, “to know the god I have worshipped all my life, whom I swore to serve to my final breath, was responsible for the death of my people...” he shook his head, “I feel lost.” Artemis reached out and pulled him into her embrace, laying his head on her shoulder, “Then hold fast to those you love, my darling,” she whispered in his ear, “and trust us to light your way.” Kael looked at her and smiled, nodding and wiping his eyes. “One question remains,” he said, “Why, out of all my people, was I spared?” “I do not know,” Artemis admitted, “but I promise, as soon as I am able, I will find out.” “How?” She tapped the crystal embedded in her forehead. “This allows me to travel between worlds. When time permits, I will use it to make my way to the Summerland, where I will demand the truth from the gods.” Kael’s smile grew wider as he marveled at his good fortune, “You would truly challenge the gods themselves on my behalf?” “I’ve already challenged one for you, beloved,” she winked, “what’s two more?” Across the courtyard from the two lovers, Trae leaned upon one of the large boulders that had once been a part of her golem. She wrapped her arms as far around it as she could and tears ran freely down her face. Michra approached, tentatively reaching out to comfort the aggrieved numeromancer. “I’m so sorry, Trae,” she said. Trae gripped Michra’s hand and a quick sob caused her shoulders to hitch. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she forced some semblance of control on herself. She let go of Michra’s hand, standing straight and regarding the Gunfighter with red puffy eyes. “When I was just a little girl,” she said, just the smallest hint of a quiver in her voice, “I secretly followed the hunters out through the gate and into the woods. They did not know I was there, as I followed far behind them. Unfortunately, I soon fell too far behind and became hopelessly lost. I’d never been in the forest unattended and could not find my way home. So, I did what any young child does in that situation. I sat down where I was and began to cry.” Trae paused, trying to keep fresh tears from falling while she continued her tale. She was less than successful, and her voice was ragged when she spoke, “Th-that was when huh-huh-he,” she pointed to the piece of her golem, “fuh-found me. Huh-he p-p-picked me up,” she stopped, eyes shut tight, a low keen escaping her throat and preventing her from speaking. Then, through her tears, she struggled on, “Huh-he t-t-took me huh-home and wuh-we...h-he... oh, gods!” she fell back onto the stone then, sobbing uncontrollably. Michra, her own eyes wet, lay a comforting arm across Trae’s shoulders. “When they found us,” Trae growled through her tears, her voice muffled by the stone, “the fuh-first thing they did wuh-was b-b-b- blast him out-out from under me.” She brought her fist down hard on the stone, “He tried to p-puh-protect me,” she cried, “and they juh-just kept blasting him tuh-to smaller puh-pieces. Then they puh-picked up th-the bigger ones and...” “And used them as weapons against your family,” Michra whispered, gently rubbing Trae’s back. Trae simply nodded, unable to speak further. A sudden shift of the stone beneath her caused her to stumble forward, and Michra reached out to steady her. The stone slid toward the center of the courtyard then, and a quick look around saw others doing the same. Jef gripped his axe, expecting attack, but when everyone looked toward where the stones were moving, they saw Anya seated serenely on the ground, her legs crossed. Her hands were pressed palms together and she had her eyes closed. The stones began to pile one atop the other, and as everyone watched, dumbfounded, they saw other stones and bits of debris sail up over the wall. A loud crashing and rumbling could be heard from the woods as more stones and more debris followed, adding to the pile that slowly took the form of a golem standing behind Anya. When the noise ceased and the last tiny piece of stone joined the golem, Anya opened her eyes. She then tumbled to the side, caught at the last moment by Trae, who had run to her. Anya looked up at her older sister and smiled. “Told you,” she murmured, “that I can heal anything.” Then her eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep. The golem rumbled softly, reaching down to gently touch Anya’s tiny cheek with its massive stone finger before moving to stroke Trae’s. She smiled and leaned her head against his finger. “That’s right,” she said, “Anya healed you.” There was a pause before she spoke again, “Yes,” she said, “yes, she is very special.” Another pause, and steel crept into her voice, “Oh yes, my dear friend. We will have our vengeance against those who did this to you.” ****** Far to the south of Trae and her reconstituted golem, the subject of their ire looked down at the oddly mummified remains of the former Monarch of Pacha. She crouched down, decaying knee joints popping and cracking as she did, and forced a dagger into the dead woman’s breastbone. She worked the blade back and forth, finally prying open the chest cavity. She reached in and removed Lisana’s heart. She was tucking it into a pouch on her belt when one of her crew came into the room. “We’ve... scoured... the Land... Captain,” he said, “It is... completely empty.” “Empty?” Carola tried to raise an eyebrow, but lost an eye instead. Irritably, she picked it up off the floor and put it back in its socket. “How can...” she rasped, “an entire Land... be empty?” The undead crewman’s bones rattled as he shrugged. Then, his remaining features taking on a look of menace, he croaked, “You... promised... we would... feed.” Carola gestured at Lisana’s corpse, “We... can eat... this,” she suggested. The crewman scowled, “Night... walkers... taste foul,” he said, “especially... dead ones.” Carola stood slowly, “Then... we will... have to wait.” “How... long?” Carola said nothing. She was captain of the Ship of the Dead, chosen servant of the Queen of the Underworld. She did not explain herself to the walking corpses under her command. She exited the room, making for the airship that was moored near the window. The crewman followed, as sullenly as his decaying body would allow. ****** The Signalman sat on his rock next to a thick line of ash scattered with charred bits of thorny branches. He blew a playful tune on his pipes, bathed in the glow of his lantern. He continued as the black airship anchored itself to the ground before him and its grim captain descended the ladder of bones. Her crew climbed down behind her as she approached. “Hello... Signalman,” she rasped. The Signalman stopped his tune and tucked the pipes into his belt. He patted them sorrowfully. He would not be playing them again. “Captain,” he said calmly. “You know... what I want,” she said. The others began to slowly surround him. He nodded. It was over quickly. He did not struggle, for this was his destiny. He knew it was at hand from the moment he first spoke with the Bah’hren. Nor did he cry out, he met his fate with a sad smile, one that lingered even after the undead crew had eaten most of his flesh. At the end, when the last scrap of meat had been stripped from his bones, and most of the internal organs had been picked over, the helm officer brought his heart and brain to Carola. She devoured them eagerly. They were the best parts of the Signalman, and therefore her due. She licked her lips when finished, and was surprised to discover she had lips once more. She looked aro
und her then, and saw that her crew had regained much of their decaying bodies. They were all still dead, but they had flesh again. Their faces were still gaunt and stricken, their bodies thinner than a starving ascetic, but they were, for the most part, whole. An effect of eating a living myth, my darling, Umbra whispered in Carola’s mind, though not what you came here for. “The lantern!” Carola shouted. Her voice had regained much of its old strength. “Bring me the lantern!” One of her crew, a female, Carola could now see, brought her the dim lantern that had once glowed with green music. The captain took it and regarded it a moment before placing Lisana’s heart within it. At once it gave off a glow of terror and mourning, blood red music filling the air. Excellent! Umbra crowed, The meager enchantments laid upon our final prize will be no match for this unholy magic. Simply bide your time a while longer, Captain... Carola smiled wickedly, while her undead crew began a slow shuffling macabre dance, “Then, with the final piece of the puzzle in place,” she hissed, “the world shall be ours!” Yes, of course, darling, Umbra cooed before chuckling softly, ours.

  The Armies Gather

  Pym Kenar sat on the throne of Vega, his head in his hands. He was vibrating slightly. The reports from Drego were increasingly dire, begging for more aid. Aid he could not give without leaving Vega defenseless. Deron approached him, his face showing deep concern and reached out with a comforting hand. It passed completely through the young Prince. “Pym!” Deron gasped, yanking his hand back. Pym’s head snapped up, and immediately he seemed more solid. Tentatively, Deron reached out to him again, sighing in relief when he touched his lover’s shoulder. “What was that?” he asked. Pym shook his head, “I don’t know what causes it,” he said, “but if I let my control slip, I vibrate so fast that I start to lose physical cohesion. At least,” he grinned, showing some semblance of his former self, “that’s what I’ve been told.” “By whom?” Deron asked. With Artemis and her Champion gone, and much of the Solarian elite killed off, he was the highest authority on superhuman abilities in the palace. “Well,” a voice spoke from the end of the long hall, “I know I said something to that effect more than once.” The two young men looked toward the voice, and Pym broke into a wide smile at the sight of a robed and bespectacled bald man. “Brother Sime!” he cried, happily. Brother Sime, along with several of his brethren, walked the distance from the doors of the audience chamber to the throne. He smiled as he bowed low. Pym stood and descended the dais, standing before his one-time mentor. “What brings you here, Brother?” Pym asked. “Well, for one thing,” Sime answered, grinning as he stood, “I had to see if the rumors were true. Pym Kenar, Prince of Vega,” he marveled, “I never would have imagined it, but I am very proud of you nonetheless.” “Yes, well...” Pym blushed, looking away. “And who is this?” Brother Sime turned toward Deron. Pym’s smile grew even wider, “Brother Sime, may I present Deron, Lord Regent of Vega,” he put an arm about the other young man, “and the love of my life. Deron,” he gestured toward the assembled monks, “this is Brother Sime, and his followers of the-” “The Path of the Open Hand, yes,” Deron finished with a smile of his own. He shook Brother Sime’s hand, “A pleasure to meet you, Brother. I have heard much about you.” Brother Sime beamed, “The pleasure is mine, Lord Deron. It warms my heart considerably to know that our young Pym has found love at last.” Deron gestured to a small reception area off to the side of the main audience hall. A table was laden with food and drink, as was customary during audience hours. “May we offer refreshment to you and yours, Brother?” Brother Sime nodded, “We are much obliged.” He indicated the other monks to precede him, and they did so eagerly. He followed, Deron and Pym walking beside him. “Brother,” Pym said, “I highly doubt you would all leave your jungle retreat just to satisfy your curiosity. Is there another reason for this visit?” Brother Sime smiled, nodding, “Indeed. Other rumors have reached us as well. Rumors of renewed warfare to the east.” Pym’s face fell, “Aye,” he said, sighing, “the Nazeans attack Drego as we speak, and I have no more troops to send, for all that they are sorely needed.” “Mm,” Brother Sime seemed thoughtful, “I had feared as much. Come,” he beckoned Pym and Deron follow him as he made his way to a heavily curtained window overlooking the courtyard. He drew aside the curtain, indicating the Prince and Regent to look down. “Perhaps we might be of some assistance?” Pym and Deron gaped at the sight before them. In the courtyard were hundreds of people, more monks of the Open Hand, as well as the entirety of the Westwall Hunt. They milled about, their voices a gentle murmur, and it was clear they had been welcomed by the people and the guards surrounding them. Pym smiled, turning to hug his old mentor. “Oh yes,” he said happily, “this will do nicely.” Many miles to the east, in the great central courtyard of the village of the Wild Clan, another mighty army prepared to move out. Warriors and hunters alike sat astride giant cats, various weapons and supplies bundled on their saddles behind them. The cats were an ancient telepathic race, and had befriended Sa’raa years prior. Their queen owed the young werecat a great debt, and their participation in this war was part of her payment. The queen herself, a long-haired tabby- colored giant named Phoebe, bore the Monga on her back. Sa’raa eschewed a mount of her own, intending to make the journey to Drego as a cat. She prowled about the assembled felines, purring and mewling in equal measure. Michra sat unsteadily behind the Monga, silently wishing for a horse. Fear not, little one, Phoebe purred in Michra’s mind, I will not allow you to fall. “Nor will I, daughter,” the Monga turned to her and smiled. The previous night, amid much raucous celebration, Michra had been adopted into the Wild Clan as a member of the family. The memory, fuzzy though it was due to the copious amounts of strong wine she’d drunk, gave Michra a warm feeling in her heart. Her own family had died years before, and the closest thing she’d had since was lost, perhaps forever, in a strange and hostile Land. It felt good to have one again. Kael hovered in the air beside Jef, as the War Chief reviewed his troops. Jef was seated atop a hulking brute named Loki, with long fur the color of a starless night. Kael was visibly agitated. He’d woken that morning to discover Artemis long gone. “She’s gone where?” he asked Jef, the latest of a dozen times. Jef sighed, but held his temper. Kael was newly married, and a wife such as Artemis would take many years to grow accustomed to. He allowed himself a small smile as he regarded his own wife. “She travels to the Yoni Luna,” he said, “deep in the heart of the Great Wood,” he told the worried Champion, “She senses Queen Umbra’s hand in recent events and will seek aid and counsel in the Realms of the Otherworld.” “But the Wood is a hostile place for women these days,” Kael exclaimed, “particularly her. Did she at least take a few warriors with her?” Jef shook his head, “She did not wish to deplete our strength. All she asked of us was a strong bow.” Jef grinned. “I gave her one of mine. The fact that she could even draw it at all, let alone as easily as she did, should assure you that you’ve nothing to worry about. Now,” his voice became stern, “apply your thoughts to the task at hand. Your wife will be well or she will not. Either way, there is naught you can do for it. But I will not have my people suffer because your mind is not in the battle.” He fixed Kael’s eyes with his own, “Do we understand one another, Champion?” Kael nodded, his face a mask of resolve, “Aye, War Chief,” he said, “perfectly.” A few feet away, the Monga bid farewell to her eldest child. “The village is in your keeping, daughter,” she said, “Guard it well, and be wary, for I sense many dangers lurking, awaiting their moment to strike.” The Ki-Mon nodded, “Be at ease, mother,” she said, “any who believe us vulnerable once you’ve gone will be in for a rude awakening. I-” A sudden ruckus interrupted her, causing her and the Monga to look down the line, to the wagon being drawn by two of the younger cats. They were clearly not happy with their burden, and sought to shrug it off. This caused no small amount of banging and crashing from within the wagon, which contained what its drivers insisted was “essential equipment”. A quick mental command from their queen calmed the tw
o cats, but the Ki-Mon still moved to confront her brothers. “Is all this truly necessary?” she indicated the covered wagon driven by Anton and Dru. The brothers rolled their eyes at their older sister, “Um... yes. Yes, it is,” Dru said, sounding very put-upon. “Trust me,” Anton said, “they’ll thank us for all this later.” The Ki-Mon was unconvinced, and would have pressed the matter further, but at that moment, Jef gave the order to move out. The two cats pulling the wagon started forward. They needed no reins to guide them, so the brothers merely made themselves comfortable in the driver’s seat of the wagon. “See you soon, dear sister!” Dru called out, ignoring the Ki-Mon’s scowl. Even farther to the east, on the bloody plains bordering the Nazean Lands, Zen Drego rode up and down the lines shouting encouragement to the beleaguered soldiers. He held a long curved sword in one hand and a revolver in the other, guiding his horse with his knees. His armor and his sword were covered in the blood of his enemies, and the pallor of his face matched that of his warriors. “Stand fast, warriors of Drego and Vega!” he shouted, his voice hoarse yet still carrying, “Stand fast against the hordes of the enemy! They took our Lands once,” he cried, “but so long as I draw breath, they shall not do so again!” A great cheer rose from the weary fighters, much reduced in number after days of fighting. The remaining Gunfighters had formed ranks with the dwindling Rifle Brigade from Vega, while the footsoldiers from both Lands mingled freely. They knew their cause was lost. Looking across the battlefield, it seemed as though the Nazean forces had grown tenfold as their own numbers fell. Though they girded themselves for the next assault, they knew it would be the last. Barring a miracle, there would be no hope at all for the free Lands of Amorlia. Just then, the clear call of a horn rang out from the southwest. Some among the fighters recognized it as the war cadence of the Land Pacha, long unheard in these Lands. Zen recognized it too, and turned toward the sound as several thousand horses thundered toward them. In the lead, a revolver in each hand, rode Qi Drego. Behind her followed every able-bodied man and woman of the Land Pacha, armed as best they could from the armories of their formerly- enchanted Land. Swords, spears, bows and arrows and guns of various design were borne by warriors of grim purpose. They rode powerful steeds borrowed from the fabled horsemasters of Drego’s plains, and they would follow the woman who’d broken their curse all the way to the Sixth Hell if she chose to lead them there. Qi smiled at Drego’s Monarch as she drew rein before him. “Terribly sorry we’re late, big brother,” she said, “I do hope we haven’t missed all the fun.”