by Dan O'Brien
Arile had pulled back his hood and coat, tying his spear around his back. His darting gaze took in the gradual warmth of the place. “These tunnels run deep, E’Malkai of the South. There has been much war in these halls,” called out Arile, his voice a hoarse representation of what it had been.
E’Malkai craned his neck. “How can you tell?”
“I can smell blood. There is much old blood on the walls of this place.”
E’Malkai nodded, not wanting to pursue that any further. The idea was far too morbid to put into words. He did not want to face the possibility that he had come all this way to find a cemetery of the past. There was no light in the tunnels, only the pale glow of the dried fluids.
The white phosphorous gave off some essence of light.
They crawled and maneuvered through the winding, and sometimes steep, passages for what seemed like hours. The warmth of the place slowly became uncomfortable as their bodies adjusted. Layers no longer did anything more than retain heat and make them sweat profusely.
The tunnel had finally begun to widen, and light shone from a distance. The halls moved out into the open area at the fore of the Fallen, a place that had seemingly been undisturbed for the better part of two decades. Adobe homes were placed on top of one another, more so than in decades past.
Yet, there was a solemn silence to it.
There were no wandering people, no wayward guards; at least not at first glance. A spear sailed through the air. A blunt point ricocheted off the wall to the left of E’Malkai as he stepped out into the main area.
Four men came from the right side. E’Malkai’s face reeled with shock. Arile had already moved out from behind him, another guardian for another place. The spear came around his back in one smooth motion as he swung the tail end up in a high arc and caught the first of the Fallen across the throat.
The man doubled over as Arile continued forward, not breaking stride. He brought the spear around his lowered body and spun, tripping the second assailant. Arile stood over the two who he had taken down and placed the butt of his spear on the ground as four more came into view.
They wore a dark garb with a silver line that ran perpendicular over their chest. It symbolized them as disciplinary soldiers, though neither E’Malkai nor Arile could have known such a thing.
They carried short blades, more like a machete used to cut brush. The guard of the weapon was oversized and ornate, but could be used to strike as well as stab, for it added to the weight of a blow.
Arile allowed himself a small smile.
He wanted to fight just as much as these soldiers wanted to maim intruders, and both served their purpose without thought. Arile used his spear to parry the first blade, using his shaft to stick to the hilt and then spun the man past him and off-balance, driving the end into the stomach of the next. The white hunter stepped forward fluidly and brought the end up, striking the next man in the face before he brought his weapon up to guard.
E’Malkai watched the scene with worry as he stepped out into the main area of the Fallen and placed his hand on his father’s planedge, gripping it tightly. His mind raced as he thought of his options.
Should he pull his blade?
Would he be proficient enough with it not to kill?
Arile broadsided the next man with the side of his spear. Dropping it against the ground, he tried to weave it through the soldier’s legs. The maneuver was unsuccessful as the soldier leapt over it with a calculated ease.
He landed beside Arile and kicked out hard with his boot. Catching the white hunter across the chin, he knocked him back as Arile struggled to bring his spear back up to guard. The short blade whipped out, slicing through the air with a wicked sound as it sought out Arile’s neck.
The son of Armen pulled the blade for fear of his friend’s life. “Stop,” yelled E’Malkai as loud as he could in the tongue of the Fallen.
The guard looked at him with a strange glare.
Arile capitalized on the guard’s momentary pause, bringing his spear right up between the man’s legs. Striking his groin with a fantastic pop, the man rolled to the ground with a high-pitched grunt.
One of the soldiers who had fallen on the ground from Arile’s attack opened his eyes to see the image of E’Malkai holding the planedge. His eyes grew wide. With the blade in hand and the beard, he looked like Seth Armen.
“By the Believer, Seth,” croaked the man, trying to stand.
Arile spun, the feral haunt of violence still lingered. He saw the weapon and the man only as a further attack and sped forward.
E’Malkai raised a hand for him to stop. “Let him speak, Arile. He spoke my father’s name,” said E’Malkai, his eyes meeting that of the beaten soldier.
The soldier eyed him with unparalleled awe. “Father?”
“Seth Armen was my father. I carry his blade so that I may come here and seek an audience with your tribe,” returned E’Malkai in the best Fallen that he could manage.
Another of the soldiers stood. He had dark black hair with light brown streaks and piercing brown eyes that seemed to look through E’Malkai. “Seth Armen had no son,” he spoke. After looking at the cold look on Arile’s face, he knew to hold his tongue.
“I am E’Malkai, the son of Seth Armen and Leane, daughter of E’Michael. I was born in the southern district of Duirin. I have come because I seek information. I have come to undertake the pilgrimage of the Believer,” spoke E’Malkai.
His words did not feel as though they were his own.
The soldiers stood and regarded E’Malkai with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. Another of them spoke, his voice emotionless. “Only Higald will be able to sort through what is and what might be.”
“Higald?” E’Malkai knew the name, but he feared revealing that knowledge.
“He is the chief of the Fallen,” returned the dark-haired man as Arile settled next to the youth. His spear touched the ground, acting as something to lean against. The dark-haired man gave Arile a sidelong glance. “Who are you?”
Arile looked at the man. The ovals of his eyes were slits, and he spoke Umordoc gutturally. “The White One.”
Whatever mirth had been in the dark-haired man’s eyes disappeared. The words he uttered in the tongue of the Umordoc were intelligible despite the language barrier.
“He is not welcome. Those who can speak the Umordoc tongue cannot walk among the Fallen. They bear the taint of the beast,” uttered the man. “The White One lives no longer.”
E’Malkai looked to the side at the impassive look on Arile’s face. His eyes remained on the dark-haired soldier. “He is my guide. He goes where I may go.”
The brown-haired one moved forward, gesturing with his hands. “You bear the weapon of Armen, of the greatest Master Huntsman who ever walked the tundra. Will you vouch for this man? Will he uphold the safety of the Fallen?”
“I shall,” replied E’Malkai without hesitation.
“Then his sentence shall be yours if he disobeys the rules of the Fallen.”
The man nodded.
“Please, this way,” spoke the dark-haired man as he bowed and turned, marching after the soldiers who had already disappeared deeper into the Fallen. A crowd had gathered. Men, women, and children stood alongside their homes. Their wraps were similar to E’Malkai’s; only theirs were far more gray and worn.
Their hollow eyes regarded him with a deep scrutiny. Some seemed to twinkle as if they knew him, while others scowled at his appearance. Outsiders were always an ill omen to the tribe. Arile walked with indifference. Leaning forward to replace his spear, they moved behind the procession of soldiers.
E’Malkai leaned close to the white hunter.
“Why are you not welcome? Was it because of what you said?”
“The language of the Umordoc is considered to be terribly disrespectful, especially when uttered in a place such as the Fallen. My title is considered to be a long dead one that was revered only by the Umordoc as a sign of respect for my prowess on t
he tundra.”
Arile turned to make eye contact with a burly man, who had a dark wispy beard and black hair pulled back into a ponytail. They held each other’s gaze until the white hunter and E’Malkai had marched past. The Fallen man continued to stare long after they were gone.
“Do they not know of the Re’klu’hereun? Surely there is a community among the tribes. S’rean knew of the Fallen and you of the Utiakth.”
“Indeed, E’Malkai of the South. The Fallen are the largest by far. Their numbers exceed that of all of the other tribes combined. Each year their travels extend less into the tundra than in years past.”
They passed underneath a conglomeration of adobe homes, women and children piously staring out the windows at the outsiders. Mothers closed their shutters after seeing the two haggard travelers.
“Do they fear that we have come from the Umordoc?”
Arile chuckled, a strange sound unhindered by the gales of the tundra. “They believe you to be what you say you are. It is I who they believe descended from the Umordoc, for I require little shelter from the cold. S’rean is the one who believed me to be the White One. In his tribe, there has never been a hunter so pale.” The white hunter laughed again as he spoke of S’rean and the Utiakth.
“Have you killed many Umordoc?” asked E’Malkai, watching those who passed around them.
“Several. Though not as many as the line of Armen. The Umordoc know the name. Many have tried to kill a son of Armen, but none that I know of have been successful.”
The procession slowed as they neared a building of considerable girth. It was a common house whose exterior was scarred from numerous battles. The dark-haired man had turned toward Arile and E’Malkai while they spoke; he waited impatiently until they stopped talking.
He cleared his throat to gather their attention. “Lord Higald is inside. I would ask that you show him respect and courtesy at all times, especially he who speaks the tongue of the beasts.”
The man looked at Arile with considerable disdain, but the white hunter brushed past him and continued through the sweeping fabrics that covered the entrance. Beyond was an assembly hall that served as the common house for many years; it had changed considerably since the time of Seth, for now it contained seats for those in attendance so that they no longer had to stand.
Chairs were littered in the open space.
The place was empty, except for someone at the far back who leaned back against a chair larger than the others. It was a rigid and ornate throne that had stone armrests and a plush blanket that lay loosely on the seat. The dark-haired man continued ahead of E’Malkai and Arile before allowing them to pass as they stood in front of the solitary man.
“May I present Lord Higald,” boomed the dark-haired man.
The chieftain’s long hair was shoulder length and speckled with so much gray that there did not appear to be any other color. The coldness of his eyes remained as he stared at the two men before him. He wore a trimmed beard that was equally gray. Claw-shaped scars in pairs of three marred each cheek.
Around his neck he wore a bleached bone, a leg bone of some great mammal. He did not wear wraps like E’Malkai, nor did he wear the black garb of the disciplinary soldiers. Instead, he was draped in layers. The skin of a great beast adorned his shoulders, the fur brown and gray like his beard.
Higald nodded. “Who are they, Bione?”
The dark-haired man, Bione, gestured to E’Malkai and then Arile. “E’Malkai of the South, son of Seth, and the white hunter…”
Higald silenced him with a simple wave of his hand.
“You say that he is son to Seth Armen?” he queried.
E’Malkai stepped forward to answer. “I am E’Malkai, son of Seth Armen and Leane, daughter of E’Michael. I have come for the pilgrimage…”
Higald made a deft slice of his hand for silence.
“There is no son of Seth Armen.”
E’Malkai rolled his eyes: the same argument again.
“He bears his father’s planedge. Surely no child has bested Seth Armen,” reasoned Bione without looking at either of the outsiders.
The chief rumbled.
His arms folded over his lap, he looked at the youth. “You bear a passing resemblance to your father. You have the same cold blue eyes that served him well on the tundra. But I say that there can be no son of Seth Armen. He was banished two decades ago. He did not marry,” returned Higald in the same even tone with which he presided over all matters.
“My father is Seth Armen and my mother is Leane,” stressed E’Malkai, his patience normally a deeper reserve.
Higald ignored him. “Disarm them and have them confined until I may pass judgment. I will not have such people in my court who dare speak lies.”
“Rite of combat,” whispered Arile.
“Huh?” queried E’Malkai in surprise at the whispered words.
“Ask for the rite of combat,” he urged again.
E’Malkai looked at him wide-eyed.
They were trapped.
To come this far to be disarmed and summarily judged without being heard would be nothing short of a disaster. The possibility of escape had long since diminished as they were ushered past lines of soldiers and men capable of damage and destruction.
“I ask for the rite of combat to prove that this blade that my father carried is now mine,” called E’Malkai with uncertainty. He stumbled over the proper words, for he did not know the customs as well as his mother, or even Arile for that matter.
Bione looked at him incredulously. This had not been expected. “Surely an outsider, one not of the Fallen as he is, cannot ask for such a rite.”
Higald inspected E’Malkai, his wraps, the tuck of his blade. The smile of a beast spread across Higald’s lips, his teeth large in his mouth as he flashed the wolf’s fangs.
“The weapon is of the Fallen, and he carries it in his possession. Such a rite can be called for no other reason than to settle the true nature of how he came into possession of Seth Armen’s blade.”
Bione scowled, but his words remained intact.
“Thank you for allowing me your grace, Lord Higald,” spoke E’Malkai, uncertain whether to bow or not, and then deciding against it.
Once again the chief ignored him as if he had not spoken at all, turning instead to Bione. “See that he is cleaned up and prepared. Tonight we feast, and in the morning the rite of combat shall commence,” growled Higald, for his voice knew no other tone.
Bione bowed quickly and escorted Arile and E’Malkai out without another word. The chief of the Fallen brooded over the return of the line of Armen, alone.
ⱷ
The Illigard Swamps
Commander Xi’iom surveyed the snow-drenched swamps and the icy encampments that had been erected by boundary scouts just the other side of the swamps. Their encampment was no more than a few hundred feet ahead of the six-man team led by the commander.
The six were spread out farther ahead of him. His hawk-like eyes caught their bounding shadows moving through the darkness of the night. They moved toward the twin set of tents that were illuminated from the inside by a heating source of some kind. The white suit that Xi’iom wore was speckled with black splotches in order to conceal himself both at night and in the snow drifts during the day.
The trek from Illigard had taken eight days.
There had been a break in the storm for a day, which allowed them to move forward in impressive leaps and bounds. He pulled a spectacular knife from his side, a curved blade like a half moon. A tight guard wrapped the hilt to keep him from having it knocked away on the off-chance that he was detected. He crept parallel to the tents, watching as his men did the same. The raised voices from within were soon discernible.
*
The boundary scout pushed back the fold of his hood and revealed his grizzled, aged features. The set of his jaw was stubborn, and his round hazel eyes were that of a simple animal. He pulled his blade from his side as he sat down cross-legged in
front of the heat source across from another boundary scout. He was a thin, vulture-looking man with a hooked nose.
“Can’t believe that bastard Kyien would use women and children as a shield,” spoke the vulture scout. His mouth was half-full with a strip of dried meat. He sucked it against his palate to create some moisture.
“Wasn’t his idea how I hear it. The mion himself passed along that order and Kyien was all too pleased to carry it out to the letter,” replied the aged scout as he rubbed his hands over the heating source.
The vulture scout seemed preoccupied with the wintry darkness. “Anything out there?”
“I sent two squads back to the Stone Tower. There hasn’t been any movement north in the past couple of weeks. Doubt we will see much more. T’elen and Illigard have no idea what is coming for them. The swamp will not be able to hold back the legion that Kyien is going to send across it.”
“You ever seen her? The Field Marshal?”
“Yeah, once. I was stationed at Illigard for a couple of months when I first enlisted. Woman looked the same then as she does now. They say she doesn’t age.”
The vulture scout shook his head. “Not what I meant. Heard she is a real looker, got the body to back it up. And a mean streak that would send you running to your mommy. That woman is more lethal than Kyien. Kick his ass in a fight I bet.”
“Kyien might not be the biggest damn guy in the world, but he would have you stabbed to death by your sister if it suited him fine. No honor in that man.”
Crack.
Both of the scouts turned. The sound came from outside the tents and they stood, grabbing their weapons. “What the hell was that?” stammered the vulture scout.
“There were some faint tracks, couldn’t have been human though.”
The attack came from the side as one of the soldiers in Xi’iom’s regiment sliced through the fabric of the tent and drove the point of the blade through the vulture scout’s chest. An excited squawk erupted from the man, but was quickly silenced. The blade receded and took his head.