The Keeper's Shadow

by Dennis Foon

  “Don’t worry. There won’t be.”

  “Good. Because seventy-five against a thousand means we all die. And there’s no guarantee the darts—”

  “Mabatan can be trusted.” Pulling away from the spyglass, Stinger stares sternly at his commander. Both he and Roan know why Wolf’s being so difficult. A third of the army is untested, Roan’s age and even younger. Eager, but if things went wrong, more of a liability than help. “The drug will work as planned.”

  “Brother Wolf,” Roan says, drawing his attention away from Stinger. “When I saw the Friend, his eyes were gouged, his vision impaired. We choose this path to give Him back his sight. He will breathe fire into the hearts of us all this day.”

  Pulling himself up to his full height, Wolf smiles proudly. “You speak like a Brother, Roan of Longlight.”

  Only a few weeks ago he was ready to fight Wolf for saying much the same thing, but in that time Roan’s come to realize that distinguishing between enemy and friend, whether god or human, was more of a challenge than he’d thought. So he lets the statement stand and returns Wolf’s smile. Then, eyeing the approaching vehicles, he breathes deeply. “How long, Brother Stinger?”

  “It is time.”

  In the long, narrow gorge sits a sprawling campsite, with scores of tents flapping in the wind and campfires blazing. Brother Wolf whistles long and loud, and the Brothers positioned there ready their weapons. Then he whistles again, this time short and sharp, and a dozen crossbowmen scramble to their positions along the ridges.

  The trucks are almost upon them when Wolf gives the final signal. Arrows rain down from the ridge and along the ground, piercing the wheels of the vehicles. The trucks careen wildly, smashing into each other, skidding across the plain. Secure in the effectiveness of their new weapon, hundreds of Clerics pour into the gorge, brandishing swords and stunners, like lemmings off a cliff, while others man the Apogees.

  Wolf gives the signal to ready the Allayers. The archers on the ground sprint straight back through the camp, chased by hosts of Clerics. As the Brothers reach the back wall, ropes swing down and they are hoisted up. With a glance at Roan, Wolf and Stinger make their way down to the horses hidden below.

  The Clerics suddenly realize that they’re at a dead end—but too late. At the mouth of the gorge, thirty blowguns have already begun their work. The Blue Robes collapse from the drug, one after the other, obstructing the exit for those further in.

  Alerted by the whirr of the Apogees powering up, Roan gives the command to initiate the Allayers. The reaction of the Clerics behind the weapons is at first confused, but within moments, calls for retreat fill the air. Roan looks down at the litter of unconscious bodies below him. At least two hundred Clerics are still struggling to get out. As soon as he’s signaled the crossbowmen, Roan takes out his blowgun and sets to work.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the first fusillade of fiery arrows has forced the remainder of the Clerics out of their trucks. Then, from either side of the perimeter of the gorge, he hears Wolf and Stinger emerge, leading the Brothers’ cavalry attack. Only a handful of Clerics are still struggling in the gorge. Leaving two Brothers behind to finish the job, Roan motions the others forward. They’re going down.

  As they fan out to join the battle on the plain, Roan is swarmed by a phalanx of Clerics. Drawing out his hook-sword, he strikes again and again, hitting heads with the flat side of his blade, kicking hard to the chest or chin—careful not to land a mortal blow. Weaving through the scores of horses that lie wounded, their riders trapped beneath them, Roan circles and spins, his sword strokes a blur until a Cleric’s hand cinches around his ankle.

  Stumbling back, he’s pinned by two Clerics against a fallen horse. As he fends off their swords, Stinger, moving with the stealth and focus of a sand painter, rives them one after another with his double-pointed spear. Throwing himself back into the melee, Roan plows through the Clerics until they are a sea of bloodied blue cloth.

  Chest heaving, his ears ringing from the silence, Roan turns. In every direction, only Brothers are left standing.

  Joining Roan at the center of the battlefield, Wolf’s breath is short, his eyes overly bright, the veins on his bald head still pulsing with adrenaline. “They battled well and died with honor.”

  Stinger, arm bleeding, stares out at the grisly remains, shaking his head. “I’ll keep fifteen Brothers with me,” he mutters. “We’ll set the pyre, separate the wounded.” He does not wait for Roan to respond but turns instantly to choose his men.

  The Hhroxhi are already on the field. They’ve agreed to tend the injured, but shelter in the tunnels for an army of a thousand was out of the question. Crowded together and protected by the gorge, the uninjured will survive the cold, but Roan is worried some of the wounded might not.

  “Everyone else to the gorge,” Wolf orders. “Begin the scan!”

  Pulling out the hand-sized devices, the Brothers creep from Cleric to Cleric, modifying their enablers. The sight is disturbingly reminiscent of stories Roan’s read about scavengers who scour the battlefields to rob the bodies of the dead. But these men are alive. Most of them. And they’re being released from a prison they might not even know they were in.

  Brother Wolf watches with a disgruntled look on his face. “And when they awaken. What then?”

  “How would you react? If you woke up no longer in Darius’s control.”

  “They will still have their faith.”

  “The prophecies shape their beliefs. You may find they are not so dissimilar to your own.”

  Wolf eyes Roan skeptically. “Soon the war will be over. What need will we have then for such an army? Killing them would have been easier.” Before Roan can answer, Wolf looks back in the direction of the City and asks, “When do you leave, Roan of Longlight?”

  “After the tribute to the Friend.”

  “Hhroxhi are readying Allayers for positioning outside the City gates as we speak. The moment the eclipse begins, we attack.”

  “Friend willing, in two days’ time I will find you there.”

  “Friend willing,” Wolf says, squinting at the horizon. And running a hand over his bald head, he sighs and turns to join his men in the gorge.

  Roan had hoped their parting would be easier, but Wolf has never approved of this part of the plan. He’d wanted Roan to lead the Brothers to the gates of the City, and dismissed all of Roan’s protestations with outraged sputterings. But in the end, he’d accepted it, in his fashion, because Roan had said that he knew it was what Wolf had dreamt of doing since he went to train with Ende as a child. The Friend had clearly singled him out for this task, and so Roan was sure Wolf would succeed.

  As he watches his commander take charge of the field, Roan goes over the events of the day. Over a thousand Clerics demobilized with a minimum of blood spilled. Walking toward the pyre, Roan wishes he could find it in himself to look at the faces of the fallen so that he might remember the cost of this accomplishment. But he cannot.

  THE WRATH OF DARIUS

  WHEN, BY DAY, THE MOON’S SHADOW IS SEEN CROSSING THE CITY, CHILDREN WILL LAUGH, AS IF AWAKENING FROM A BAD DREAM.

  —THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

  THE FATES WERE WITH THEM, and the sky is clear. The wind’s forbiddingly frigid, but here, near the top of the tallest building in the City, heat rises from the elevator shaft and keeps Mabatan and Lumpy warm.

  This vantage point provides them with an unobstructed view of the battle about to unfold. Through the binoculars Number Six gave her, Mabatan scans the areas where the initial clashes will take place: the gates of the City, the square where the giant Apogee stands in the ghetto of the Absent, and, far in the distance the Quarry’s great pit and the concrete bunker where the Dirt is refined and stored. Mines have been set, Allayers transported, troops positioned. Soon, at the top of this very building, Roan will confront Darius.

  But if all fails, there is the detonator in Lumpy’s hand.

  Last night, disgui
sed as Gunthers, she and Petra had entered the Pyramid. While they’d seemingly gone about maintenance work on the central elevator shaft, they’d covertly completed their mission. Swinging down from ropes attached to a pulley at the Pyramid’s apex, they’d positioned the explosive gum along the entire length of the central pylon.

  “Look, Mab, no hands!” Petra had whispered, flipping as she let herself down another story, her harness bearing all her weight. Mabatan had followed, but slowly, hand over hand, carefully pressing the explosive into place.

  “It’s not good, being so serious before battle,” Petra’d said, slipping alongside. “It’s bad luck. Come on, Mab. Roan will be here. The Hhroxhi sent word the battle at the gorge went as planned. It will all turn out right.”

  “I am not worried about myself, Petra. But…hundreds of people dwell in this building. People who are not Masters—”

  “Every war has a price,” Petra’d said, her manner matter-of-fact. “They’re killers, Mab.”

  “I know that. But if Roan fails, the Dreamfield will collapse… and it will only be a matter of time before—”

  “Blast the prophecies, Mab! We fight till the bitter end, no matter what, because even if we lose the battle, even if we lose our lives, maybe someone else will win the war. That’s who you fight for. The ones who come after.”

  Mabatan had managed a weary smile, and the young Apsara had grinned content, flicking her wrist and rappelling down to the next level.

  Still, Mabatan had been unable to sleep, and the sun had been barely over the horizon when the Gunther had guided her and Lumpy onto this platform just beneath the top floor at the apex of the Pyramid. She has had all morning to inspect the site and determine where an attack might come. But Lumpy is still nervous, and she cannot blame him. Watching him inspect the detonator for the hundredth time, she hopes against hope that Petra is right. That there will be an after.

  “Are you sure they can’t see us?” Lumpy stares at the glass above and below them suspiciously.

  “I believe Eighty-Four answered that question many times last night.”

  “Yeah. He said stuff about alignment of girders and light refraction and depth of field and I didn’t understand a word of it.”

  “If they come, I’ll be ready,” Mabatan says, patting the quiver of Nethervine-dipped darts that’s mounted to her blowgun. Then, lifting a hand to shield her eyes, she looks up at the sky. “The moon’s disk has just touched the sun. Is Ende in position?”

  “Nearly. See them? There, at the edge of the ghetto.” Lumpy frowns. “It’s a weak position, Mabatan. Once they’re in the square, they’ll be hemmed in—”

  “There was no other choice.”

  Kamyar’s news about the giant Apogee had altered their plans. Disguised as Absent, the Gunthers had ventured out for a closer look. Their news hadn’t been good. The silver encasing the Apogee masked a shield that rendered their Allayers useless. The engravings of Stowe disguised doors set to open when and only if the Apogee was activated. The only way to destroy it would be to topple the monument before the weapon was put into use.

  An Apogee surrounded by Clerics meant there would be a bit of a fight. So Ende had decided to take it on. With twelve of her best, the matter would be easily dispatched—they’d infiltrate the crowd, getting close enough to take down the Blue Robes quickly, without warning, then, together, topple and destroy Darius’s disguised weapon. Kamyar had come forward to commit his Storytellers to replace Ende and her twelve at their appointed installations, sabotage and subterfuge being very closely linked, he’d said with a wink. Still, he’d spent most of the night sharpening his needles.

  “If Ende’d seen it from here, she might have changed her mind.” Lumpy lets the binoculars drop and looks helplessly at Mabatan.

  “Ende can take care of herself.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  Mabatan can see she’s offended him, but she is so sick with worry herself that she feels incapable of offering any calming words.

  “I hope they do it quickly,” Lumpy mutters anxiously. “And get out fast.”

  A flash of light draws their attention from the square to the refinery. Over the percussive blast that follows, Mabatan cries out, “It begins.”

  The mines ignite one after another around the rim of the great pit, and within seconds, it collapses inside itself. The concrete bunker blasts apart, sending a black cloud into the sky. The ground around it caves in, and soon the entire site is one huge hollow, the Dirt within buried under thousands of tons of concrete and earth.

  Mabatan allows herself a moment of quiet satisfaction and fixes an image of Khutumi firmly in her mind. Father, today we see an end to the Dirt.

  Sirens blare from the east side of the Absents’ ghetto. “How many do you see?” Lumpy shouts.

  Her heart starts to pound as she tries to count the racing vehicles. “Seven—no nine, ten. Ten. Ten trucks, perhaps twenty Clerics in each. All headed for the Quarry. It is working! Only skeleton defenses at the gates, as we hoped. Look! The Brothers. Can you see them?”

  With the Allayers positioned before them, Wolf and his warriors are spilling out onto the plain by the dozens and there are virtually no Clerics left to stop their incursion.

  Mabatan cannot help but feel hope bursting in her chest, filling her with purpose and pride. “Light the flare, Lumpy! Light it!” But when she turns to Lumpy, she sees a tear roll down his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

  Lumpy does not answer. He lights the flare and watches it explode over the ghetto. Then, setting his crossbow down, he leans in close and speaks quietly into her ear. “Over the last few weeks, those Apsara have become my friends, Mabatan. Up here, giving the signal…I feel like their executioner.” Turning his face away, he stares down at the square below. “They’re friends, Mabatan,” he calls out. “Friends.”

  When Stowe enters the Grand Travel Room two steps behind the Archbishop, the Masters stand by their glass chairs in deference. Darius glides to the only Master still sitting, but Stowe can read his anxiety and rage in the tiny red sparks that fly from his shoulders. Willum had said the Mad Masters would destroy all they could, in the hopes of weakening Darius’s defenses and clearing the way for Roan—how much they had managed to accomplish with Kordan and his cronies on their tail, she’s about to find out.

  As the Keeper touches his servant’s sagging face, Kordan’s eye opens and he bolts forward. “Archbishop, the Mad Masters are defeated.”

  “Yes, my dear Kordan? But at what cost?”

  “The Ramparts, the Antlia, the Gyre and Ocellus…all destroyed.”

  “You said defeated. Are they dead, Kordan? I want them dead.”

  “We maneuvered them into the Spiracal’s influence. They were swallowed up. They must be dead. They must be…Keeper—”

  At that moment, the door bursts open and Querin enters, the Clerics behind him delivering the desiccated corpses of the three Mad Masters. “The code to their quarters had been altered.” The Master of Inculcation seems to scrutinize every face in the room simultaneously. “Presumably by the same individual who provided them with Dirt.”

  The Masters all begin to talk at once, trying to make sense out of what’s happened.

  “Get them out of my sight,” Darius hisses.

  But Querin only moves closer to the Eldest, his voice rising above the clamor. “Theirs,” he says, pointing to the bodies of the Mad Masters, “is not the only act of sabotage. The Quarry and its contents have been destroyed.”

  The room is deathly quiet, but the terror in the Masters’ faces is fleeting and is rapidly replaced by doubt and disbelief.

  A grin spreads across Darius’s face. “It matters not. Dirt is obsolete! Not required!”

  Terror’s back now. And suspicion.

  “Not required?” simpers Master Fortin. “How can that be, Eldest?”

  “Come, my friends. I will show you. The Mad Ones did not succeed in harming my greatest achievement. Join me now and I will sh
ow you power beyond anything we had thought possible. Kordan, distribute the Dirt. It will be the last time you need to use it, my friends. The power of my Throne has made Dirt an anachronism.”

  But not one of the Masters accepts. Not one sits down.

  “Do you dare to doubt me, Masters?”

  Stowe wants to take a step back. Distance herself from him. But she must not. One wrong move and he’ll try to kill her.

  “Explain, Fortin.”

  Master Fortin opens his mouth but he cannot speak. He blubbers and drools.

  She can feel Darius gripping Fortin’s little mind. To Stowe, Fortin appears glazed in a slippery putrid green that squeezes him relentlessly. But she can also see what the other Masters witness. The manager’s arms tightening against his body, his hands in fists, his face frozen, the gasps, the blood gushing from his eyes. Fortin convulses on his feet for minutes, a sickening recreation of the puppet he has always been, before he collapses in a motionless heap.

  “I created you,” snarls the Eldest, hand outstretched, searching for his next victim. “I redeemed your rotting flesh, rejuvenated you in the Gyre. If it were not for me, you would all be long in the grave. Masters! I have defeated death itself! Your last chance,” he calls out. “Take your Dirt and immortality shall be yours.”

  Most of the Masters are old, decrepit. They are exhausted and habit has reduced their talents to the intrigue of maintaining their positions. Direct confrontation is foreign to them and they stand paralyzed, incapable of action. What now?

  “Shall I kill you all?” Sit.

  The command is felt, like a compulsion, and is obeyed instantaneously, the Masters’ eyes glazing over.

  Take the Dirt at your sides.

  Stowe’s heart sinks as she watches the Masters’ fingers dipping into pots, sliding over lips. Darius pivots slowly to face her and Querin, the only two who remain standing. “Ah, Master Querin. This is not a surprise, but tell me anyway, why you do not sit?” Sit. “You disappoint me.”