by Rey Balor
In truth, Nikola would not have wanted the Light Bringers to mourn. He had never been a father but a mentor, and what was a mentor if not someone who made one better than they could ever hope to be? There would have to be a level of bitterness between mentor and mentee in order for that to happen, and if they were incapable of surviving without him, he would have failed his sacred duty to raise generation after generation to send to the ground. Even still, she could not help but think of the next generation of Light Bringers that were meant to be incubating in the lab that would not have the old man’s cryptic riddles and soft care.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she brushed them away to continue her search. The moment was surreal around her, and she wondered if this was the dream and this morning she had lived in reality. Focus, Pat, my girl. Focus.
A gasp found its way up her throat as she discovered a scrap carrying the information she wanted. It was information she needed, but once had, she wanted it no longer. She was…saddened, but she had a job to do, didn’t she? Every moment, every lesson, every question had led her down this path. She could not fail all the souls counting on her — the very reasons she had been grown. There was a time for emotions, and that time was when their job was done, they lived on the earth, and the pain of death was long since forgotten. She could feel sadness when she returned to the Land of Opportunity. Not now, not now!
The note read simply: GEN. 105 TO RETURN IN THE ATLANTIS ON SATURN DAY.
That was three days from now.
She opened her mouth and called for help.
Chapter 13: The Citadel
“On your shield, or with it.”
Death’s Lament, 20.0
Claymore’s blade was beautiful, crafted specifically to them, all the way from the weight to the grip at the end. When it sliced through the air, the wind sang songs of its passing, and the mark it found was immediately and forever embedded with its sigil. It was a blade to carry pride in, and Claymore surely did that. Its name was Oblivion, and the townsfolk stared at it in awe and fear alike as the Aegis walked toward the outskirts of the city. Only the enemies of the Citadel were met with its wrath, and everyone diverted their eyes from it to avoid being labeled as such.
It was the gun the townsfolk strived for.
The metallic weapon hung at Claymore’s hip, forgotten more times than not. It had no name to it; it sang no songs. It had two functions, and neither were things Claymore liked to dwell on. The smell of gunpowder hanging in the breeze, the feel of triggers firing, the bright flash that accompanied the ringing sound — all were signs of salvation for the citizens, albeit they were viewed with mild disgust amongst the Queens.
For while space was the purest death and fire followed close behind, metal blessed by the Aegis was an acceptable substitute. Among those of the lowest caste in the Citadel, it was more than they could otherwise have prayed for. The practice was repeated time and time again in the Aegis’s scripture, and as the only ones who could read such verses were the Aegis themselves, it fell upon the group to uphold them with strict confidence.
The captain traveled alone to the darkest part of the city where the decrepit lurked. In the oldest buildings, individuals huddled close together, not for warmth but for the reminder that they still lived. Although the structure threatened to collapse around them, they clung to its remaining strength. Perhaps they believed that so long as the support held in the roofs above their heads, they would hold together as well. Claymore stepped inside the entranceway with an apparently blank expression, but to those who looked closely, a vague revulsion was evident.
Readiness was the only reaction that the shield was met with. It was not their first visit, and to the people who knew what to expect, it was a show of salvation. Hope was dangerous in the way that it sparked desperation for more, and what little life remained in the crumbling abode struggled to stir as the captain entered and began to step through.
A hand wrapped around Claymore’s ankle, halting their progress. They shook their foot, but the hand remained strong, despite the person attached to it. He was little more than a bundle of rags, skeletal limbs sticking out and shaking more than any human should. He said nothing but instead blinked at the Aegis. It seemed as if his wrinkles would swallow him before the captain could get a word in.
“I seek the one called Hunter,” Claymore spoke, ensuring it was loud enough that any who might be listening could hear clearly.
He simply blinked twice and released his hold upon them. It was not his time, but Claymore knew that time would come soon. Few in their world got to such a state of decrepitness, but the captain supposed that was why there was a house for them in the first place — and why it was in such an isolated location. None wanted to look at their sad forms, to be reminded that this was their own future if they did not achieve their peace. It was a troubling reminder, so they locked them away until the servant of Death came calling.
Claymore continued on. The place smelled of decay, sweat, and a hundred other things that made bile rise in their throat. It reminded them far too much of the panopticon in the Citadel. The main room split off into two corridors, and they immediately took the one to the left and toward the setting sun — an instinct born in the dying light. Around the building, they could hear slight shuffling, but they did not draw their weapon.
They did not knock on any of the doors either, but instead, they simply cracked the entranceways open and glimpsed quickly inside. In the first room, there were two more bundles of rags to match the incredibly old man they had originally run into. Both remained still as they entered, having long since given up on the constant flow of life — and, in this way, the elders were similar to the prisoners Claymore had walked past only a few weeks prior.
In the second room, they found a woman who could not yet be middle aged curled into a ball, whimpering quietly in pain. Whatever injury had sunk its wretched claws into her, it was not quite enough for Death to warrant a visit yet. No, they found what they sought in the third room.
The only piece of furniture inside was a rocking chair, and it creaked back and forth to the pace of the woman upon it. Whereas the other elders had loosened their hold on life, it was clear the woman had held onto it. While she was still old, with vibrant wisps of white hair, patches along her skin from the years, and a hunch to her back, strength blazed in her eyes. She motioned Claymore forward with a crook of her finger; she was ready and worthy in a way the others were not.
The purpose of the gun was glorified death to others.
“You are the one called Hunter?” Claymore inquired, stepping forward. The woman smiled a toothless grin, continuing to wave them closer. “You know why I am here?”
“You, my dear Aegis, are here to bless me, are you not?” Her voice wavered with the effort of speaking at all. “My two hundredth birthday passed not yet a week ago. I truthfully expected you much sooner… I have not been well in some time.”
“I am sorry that I delayed. I was not advised by Death until last night. Is there anything you would want me to add to your final prayer?”
It was routine at this point — motions without any thought behind them. Claymore had been making the rounds in the Citadel for as long as they had been a guard, and rarely did anyone say yes. The dying accepted their fates, and Claymore found a certain relief in giving it to them.
“Yes,” the old woman responded. “I never expected purity at the end, especially after the life I’ve lived. I only ask you do your best to grant it to the others here — and not in your way, with steel and coldness. Pray to your Death for that.”
Claymore could not do it, but Hunter did not need to know that. The ceremony was for her peace of mind, her salvation, and if it took a slight bending of truths to see that happen, Claymore could sacrifice their honesty for a few minutes. They began with the usual preparations: intricate prayers in each of the most common tongues spoken at the Citadel, a lighting of the candle they had carried in their pocket, and the withdrawing of the gun from it
s holster. With a gentle kiss to its barrel, they held the weapon close to them. It remained, cold, motionless, and begging to try a song of its own. Could a single note of loud explosion ever count for a song?
“Hand of devotion, spirit of Death, do you accept this offering?”
There was not an answer that anyone could hear, but Claymore bowed their head low all the same. The cloak that the Queen of the Summer Isles had gifted them hung low over their features, casting shadows where none existed. In the space where dark and light met, they heard all they needed to hear: the whisper of a spirit on the wind, the command of the very earth, and the acceptance of the offering they had given. Hunter watched warily and although she expected movement, she was not prepared for the swift way in which Claymore acted.
Still with their head bowed and their lips moving in prayer, Claymore’s hand suddenly jutted out to extend the pistol away from their body. It was a fluid movement, apparently guided by something outside themself, and the weapon was pointed at Hunter for only a fraction of a second before it sounded with a long bang. The shield heard the scattering of small animals in the walls, but there was not even a quiet gasp from Hunter before the structure fell silent once again.
“Thank you, Death,” Claymore finished, finally opening their eyes. Few should live as long as the old woman had, yet when they scooped the body into their arms, they could not help but notice how small she felt — as if she was a newborn babe, instead of the aberration she had become.
Most of the other individuals in the building seemed to have vanished on the trip out, although the first man the captain had run into still attempted to grab hold of their ankle as they passed, desperate for the same peace they had given to Hunter. There was no patience left in the Aegis when they wrenched themself away from the man’s grip, continuing onward as if nothing had occurred despite the woman in their arms.
They carried the dead woman through the streets, and all those who saw them paused to stare at the sight. The spectacle was rare enough that people began to pop their heads out of the windows above to watch them pass, and that age old question weighed on each person — a question none dared to speak aloud. Will my time come soon? There was no suspicion in their glances; they ached for something they could not describe, and so they looked to Claymore to describe it for them.
The captain had no answers, only strict purpose.
In the center of the Citadel, a great bonfire had been prepared by the other Aegis as part of the ritual. Kindle was piled high enough to be seen from far away, as if the final resting place of the old woman would be a throne. Whether she was worthy of it or not did not fall under the category of Claymore’s concern. They carried the woman to the top all the same, feet digging into the wood to gather purchase as they made their way up and up. From the peak, the world had taken on an ominous silence. Everyone waited, and they could almost hear the quickness of breaths as the people looked onward.
The old woman did not find peace on the bed of wood. There was nothing to be found but the heat of the flames that had begun to lick forward as Claymore took their spot beside the Aegis on the ground once more. The flames, hungry as ever and encouraged by the shields, grew higher and higher to consume the woman, and smoke poured from the scene in a signal to the city that Death had reached them once more. Whereas the old gods came and went, Death was a certainty that would comfort them — that would answer them, even in a place so determined to hold onto life.
None approached the pyre, determined to give the old woman the pure finality of fire. Claymore said one last prayer as Hunter fizzled away, and they stood watch even after the dim circle of the sun descended completely. The city grew darker, and the people of it slowly began to return to business as the flames dimmed. The only thing that remained was smoke. More than six hours passed. Claymore’s legs were stiff and their back ached from standing so straight before the scene, but they did not waver until darkness fell and the job was finished, the woman having been returned to ash and dust.
It was Shishpar who stepped forward to interrupt the captain’s watch, his mace resting against his shoulder so that his own gun was visible. He said nothing as he found his place beside them, but his presence was enough. Neither were alone in that moment, even in their silences. Both simply accepted the quiet. When Claymore was finally ready to speak, it was Shishpar who heard their words.
“She asked for a pure death for the others.”
“What did you say?” Shishpar did not press further than that, and Claymore almost thanked him for that common decency. He always seemed to know when to push and when to pull away, which was a skill the other Aegis had lost quickly after joining the order. It was times like the one before them, when Death was so close and their mind was abuzz with confliction, that Claymore thought he was far better suited for the world outside.
“It does not matter. I lied.”
Claymore tugged their cloak tighter around them, swallowing the worry that such fabric was not suitable for such a place of sorrow. Their duties could only keep them from the presence of the Queens for so long, so it was with one last look toward what remained of Hunter that they left the smoldering remnants of the pyre behind. They moved toward the sprawling expanse of the inner Citadel, and they prayed to the same deity that had shown the old woman mercy that they would not face punishment inside. For within its walls, there still waited the five Queens and the whispered commands of the undying.
Chapter 14: The Wilds
“Humanity, with all their noble qualities, still bears in their
fragile forms the indelible stamp of their lowly origin.”
Death’s Lament, 8.23
ARISTA:
It took Illias a long moment to remember where he was when the morning light streamed through the cracks in the walls. Disorientation flooded his senses, and with a start, he realized it was late in the morning — the sun was at a different angle than what he normally saw upon waking.39 Even on his place against the hard floor, he was comfortable, and he rubbed his knuckles against his eyes.
“…Hops?”
His call was met with silence, and he saw the small bed was empty when he sat up. Hops had been nothing short of a gracious host, although Illias insisted there was no need. The spot on the floor was already too much, but it was the stories Hops had weaved for Illias that meant far more. In the darkness of their separate corners of the room, Hops had spoken of a childhood picking apples, endless days serving in the tavern, and a meticulous schedule that he so rarely broke from. In turn, Illias had told him about splashing in the river waters with Olena and Theo, endless days spent hunting, and a need to constantly push beyond all of that. Hops had drifted to sleep first with more stories mumbling from his lips, and Illias was left with the startling realization that these stories were familiar. Family, friends, home — his were not so different from the tales spun by the Erie-folk.
As Illias left the safety of the room and passed through the work area of the tavern, Hops’s prediction came true almost immediately. Each of the girls who worked in the kitchens greeted Illias with a smile and a fresh word, and he returned them in kind. They huddled around him, offering endless gratitude for the few rabbits he had managed to bring them the day before. One giggled at his bare feet, as his boots were forgotten beside his bed, and one tugged at a strand of his tangled hair and offered to braid it, to which Illias never agreed to but received somehow anyways. It was several minutes before he was able to pull away, and he walked into the main serving room with a delicate braid and a serving of bread.
There were a few individuals scattered around the tavern, most leftover from the time they spent with their drinks the night prior. None stirred as Illias took a seat on a stool, and Hops appeared as if he had been called. Still half-asleep, Illias gave the man a small smile, and in return, the blond poured him a pitcher of water.
“I always thought men of the wild were supposed to be ferocious things, but you look like you’re about to fall asleep on the co
unter. Is that Pil’s work I see? She made you look lovely, wild man.” He was almost annoyingly cheerful for it being so early in the afternoon. “I’ve got a list of work that needs to be done, if you were still willing to keep to our agreement.”
Stifling a yawn, Illias nodded. “I didn’t realize the real danger of this damn place was getting too comfortable. It’ll be good to get back to work. I’ve got one more hunting trip for the kitchen girls, and there was one thing I wanted to ask before leaving…” For the first time that morning, he seemed to remember where he was and rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowed towards Hops. “I heard numbers were amassing in the area — that true?”
“I don’t know anything about that, but—” Hops’s mouth snapped shut when shouts reached them from outside the building, ending all thoughts of a conversation. A young girl ran into the tavern, and the tears sparkled on her cheek, even from across the room. Frantically, she gestured from the way she had come. Frantically, she tried to get them to understand the danger.
“The wolflings are attacking!”
No.
Hops could not find his words, but Illias ran from the room, all traces of the tired man disappearing in the time it took to blink. Every step and every obstacle in his path was nothing. He lept over them all. His lungs worked with loud puffs as he burst into Hops’s room to grab his spear and bag from their hiding spots. The point to his weapon had been fastened the previous night, and it gleamed with glee that it had the opportunity to be used that day. He slipped on his boots, uttering a hundred curses.