The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  Xi’iom stepped through the front of the tent as two others emerged from the sides of the tent. Strangled screams echoed through the night as the men in the tent opposite met the same fate.

  The commander’s voice was grave.

  “What is Kyien using women and children to hide?

  The aged scout looked at him incredulously.

  “Commander Xi’iom?”

  Xi’iom cursed himself. He should not have bothered for a half-measure interrogation. “Field Marshal T’elen would like to know what exactly Kyien plans to do.”

  The aged scout shook his head. “Damned shame what this has come to. We used to all be on the same side.”

  Xi’iom watched the man.

  He knew him.

  He had been his commander at Illigard some time ago. “There was a time when there was no need for sides. Times have changed, people along with it. Fe’rein would use every ounce of Culouth for his war, Kyien as well.”

  “I chose my side. The Stone Tower is my home, not Illigard. Whatever Kyien is going to do, I am bound,” replied the aged scout, his old eyes tired and sad.

  “It appears these semantics are useless, old friend. I, as well, have chosen a side and that puts us in a rather tough place. I ask you again: what does Kyien plan to hide behind women and children? Is it weapons? Some war device?”

  The scout sighed.

  They were at an impasse.

  “You cannot leave me alive, and I cannot tell you and expect to return home alive. Therefore, we need to make an agreement.”

  Xi’iom raised an eyebrow.

  “How about I tell you what you need to know, and you promise to end my life? That way we both leave here with our honor and having served our duty.”

  Xi’iom dreaded war, the meaningless death sometimes more than one single mind could handle. “If that is the way that you wish it to be….”

  “It is.”

  Xi’iom nodded to the other soldiers and they bowed, their faces hidden. They disappeared into the night as Xi’iom drew his blade. Closing his eyes as he bowed his head, the blade passed in front of his face.

  *

  The pyre on which they burnt the boundary scouts remained low. It would soon bury itself, for it was erected close to the ground to ensure that the winds and snow would scatter it over the swamps. Xi’iom wiped the blood from his blade onto his sleeve and made it disappear into the sheath along his side.

  One of the white shadows of his regiment approached. His stiff salute disappeared before it was reciprocated. His voice was drowned out by the gales.

  It sounded as hollow as Xi’iom felt.

  “We have packed the supplies. Word has been received that Commander Domaen has finished his round-up of the remaining scouts who had fled north.”

  “Was there anything of use recovered?”

  The soldier remained impassive. “Only that the deployment of Culouth Commerce forces was being done so behind the cover women and children, sir.”

  Xi’iom nodded. “Dismissed. Return to Illigard. Maintain squadron at gaps of seventy feet, sweeping as we get closer to the outpost.

  The soldier saluted and disappeared into the darkness as quickly as he came. Xi’iom remained there for some time, watching the flickers of the dying fire. He wondered if Kyien would indeed sacrifice so many men to end Illigard and Field Marshal T’elen. He stood looking into the fire until the bitterness of the night broke into morning.

  ⱷ

  E’Malkai

  The steam from the bath fell over E’Malkai like a fog. Gray wisps danced over the floor. The bubbles rose around him. He ran his hands over his face. Feeling the smoothness, he sighed. Being clean was something that he never thought would feel so good.

  Then again, he had never gone so long without being able to clean himself. The room they had put him in was small. It was only large enough for the caste tub in which he sat and his pile of wraps and weapons.

  A dark fabric hung over the entrance, which opened occasionally as the guard outside leaned against it, or when the woman returned several times with buckets of hot water to fill the tub.

  Laying out several stacks of clothing, she did not specify whether or not he was to wear them or his wraps. For that matter, other than Higald and Bione, not one of the Fallen had spoken to him yet. E’Malkai rose from the tub and grasped one of the towels that had been laid out for him.

  Holding it out in front of him, he stepped out and then wrapped it around his waist. He grabbed the other towel and began to dry his head vigorously until he felt he had done a sufficient job.

  He looked at the piles of his wraps and the folded pile of clothing. He was confused what to wear. Poking his head outside, E’Malkai noticed the guard had remained in place. His dark garb was like that of the disciplinary soldiers.

  E’Malkai cleared his throat to get the man’s attention, but his gaze remained forward. The youth shrugged and spoke anyways. “Do you know what I am supposed to wear to this feast?”

  The guard remained unreadable.

  E’Malkai stared at him for a response for some time before ducking his head back in with a scowl and a sigh. “Since the fighting isn’t until the morning, the traditional clothes might be more appropriate,” spoke E’Malkai.

  He pulled the undershirt over his head, the dull brown matching his surroundings. The pants matched as well, the fabric was similar to the undershirt. A tunic lay on the ground, and he pulled it over his shoulders, one arm at a time.

  Feeling the tunic’s glossy exterior, he smiled to himself. It was rather soft to the touch, despite the despondency of color. He grabbed a crimson-colored sash and tied it off at his waist, separating his torso from his trunk.

  There was no mirror to see how he looked, so he looked down and twisted his body around to see if it was acceptable. Sighing at last, he decided that there was little he could do if it were not. He stepped past the fabric across the entrance, taking one last look back at the piles of his wraps, coat, and boots. He felt his side, realizing that he had not strapped his father’s blade there. Ducking back in, he laced it around his waist quickly and allowed it to sag.

  When E’Malkai reemerged, the guard had already taken leave of his post, disappearing down the earthen halls. There were two separate paths into the darkness, and he mused for a moment. His choice was labored because he knew nothing of the interconnecting catacombs of the Fallen.

  He turned to his right with a huff.

  The brown overshoe he wore was thick enough to shield his feet, but would have been useless on the tundra. Darkness enveloped him, and the tunnel around him began to harden. The loose earth had been replaced with dark brown stones linked together.

  He followed the natural curve of the tunnel for a half of an hour before he realized that it was not leading him any closer to the common area of the Fallen. He placed his hand on the planedge, the hilt a comfort. The tunnel opened into a spherical chamber with three more tunnels leading deeper into the catacombs or perhaps back to where he was originally, he could not be certain.

  Ducts ran overhead as part of the ventilation systems that circulated the air within the caverns. E’Malkai took notice and reasoned that if he followed the ducts, then it would circle back to the common area. He turned right along the ducts and found suddenly that a wave of warm air passed over him. He felt reassured that such warmth must be coming from the feast to which he was painfully late.

  As he rounded the far curve, he began to trot. Watching the ducts overhead until he realized that he was no longer in a tunnel, it had opened into another area. One that ended in an oval room stacked with books and tables. Charts and graphs were scattered all about, and a dark doorway was located directly across from him. Its blackened door seemed to scream to be opened.

  E’Malkai walked forward slowly. Tunnel vision gripped him as he approached, reaching his hand out. His fingers wiggled to grasp the handle. He snapped back as a wrinkled hand clasped over his forearm. He spun, seeing a strange ma
n in front of him.

  “What kind of damn fool would open that door?” roared the little old man.

  His age was so apparent that it stunned E’Malkai. Long gray hair was pulled back and his face was clean shaven. His long arms were spindly and muscular, though light-colored liver spots wove pockets in his skin. “By the Believer, you must be the one they are talking about. You look almost exactly as Seth did. You are taller, of course, and more youthful. That much is certain.”

  E’Malkai blinked at the man, unsure of what to say. The man shook his hands in front of his face. His eyes closed as he did so, a dismissive gesture.

  “I am Mihen. You are no doubt…”

  “E’Malkai.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed, had I not seen it myself. You are the spitting image of your father, though many would be reluctant to believe such a thing. It is in the eyes; those cold chasms of blue are just like Seth’s.”

  E’Malkai was disoriented. He raised his hands as if to point and then dropped them. “I seem to have wandered rather far from where I had intended.”

  “You couldn’t be more right. Your father made it south then?”

  E’Malkai nodded. “They all did.”

  Mihen turned and rifled through his papers. “I tried to make a map of where they would have to go. It is said that when you travel far enough south that the underworld rises from beneath, and a black pole heralds the end of the world.”

  The little man was incredible.

  E’Malkai leaned against the wall, overwhelmed and overloaded from what had happened in the past weeks. “That is what we call the northern marker. It signals the end of the Lower Plane and the beginning of the tundra from which no man returns.”

  Mihen’s old eyes brightened. “That is what they say as well about going south. That no one returns.”

  E’Malkai pushed himself back to a standing position. “It would seem that we both have been deceived. My father made it south and I back into the north.”

  “Because you are an Armen,” replied Mihen with a knowing nod.

  E’Malkai shook his head. “As if I had not heard that enough.”

  “It, of course, must be true, if there are so many who believe,” mocked the little man as he continued to sort through the papers. “There must be much that you wish to learn to have come this far north.”

  “I have come for the power of the Believer, or rather how to find it,” replied E’Malkai.

  The astonishment on Mihen’s face was immeasurable. He simply stared as if his eyes would soon drop from their sockets onto the floor. “You have come all this way to find exactly what it is that your father searched for?”

  E’Malkai winked. “You got it.”

  “The libraries of the Fallen will no doubt have vague references that you can follow. Much information is there, though no one can read the passages. It is in a language that we have desperately tried to decipher, but have been unsuccessful. Perhaps it is a language of the south?”

  “Might be,” replied E’Malkai with a shrug.

  “However, you will be forbidden to see them unless you pass the rite of combat on tomorrow’s morn. It was wise to seek that. It is a haven. One that gave you at least a fighting chance, no pun intended. I should warn you that the champion of the Fallen has not been bested since your father left this place.”

  “You seem rather certain that I am who I say I am,” spoke E’Malkai cautiously. The ease with which the old man accepted him required caution.

  “I am not as old in the mind as my body would betray me to be. Seth was a great man and Leane a fantastic woman, though neither would have ever been so presumptuous to seek out one another publicly. They had been close since childhood. It seemed only a matter of time before the inevitable things that men and women do would come to pass.”

  “You know that my mother was Leane?”

  “Seth and she left together with Summer and Ryan. It seemed a wise connection to make. You have her hair, the same glowing length as she had. I imagine emasculating your hair is not something you wish to hear.”

  “I would like it if you told me more of my father,” replied E’Malkai with a sad smile. The old man nodded and showed him to a chair. E’Malkai accepted and listened to the wise words of the scientist long into the night and forgot about the feast all together.

  ⱷ

  Lassen

  Field General Lassen watched as the transport rolled in once again. This time he stood outside the corner of his office and crossed his arms over his broad chest, scowling. The crimson vehicle bore the insignia of Culouth. There was no doubt that High Marshal Kyien was the one inside. Lieutenant Fairhair had warned him that a Commerce vehicle had hailed them several times without specifying their intent.

  Lassen was not pleased.

  The crimson transport spilled out its contents as the hatchway burst open and the platform extended to the ground, digging deep into the snow for leverage. Kyien walked out, purple robes dangling behind him as if he were some grand prince. He turned toward Lassen, waving his hand in greeting.

  Lassen was now twice displeased.

  He turned back into the corner office and pushed on Fairhair’s back, knocking him from his seat upon the table. Fairhair was the only one allowed to attend the meeting with Kyien. Senior officers only was how the High Marshal had so succinctly put it.

  “We have company, our great lord has arrived.” The insincerity and mockery in the Field General’s words brought a smile to Fairhair’s face. It quickly evaporated as Kyien pushed through the door. Three large Umordoc stood at his back. Their gargantuan features were held in stasis, devoid completely of emotion.

  “Field General Lassen, I hope that the precautions that I had spoken to you about are now in place?” His face was a subtle sneer as he grasped the neck of his purple cloak and pulled it aside like a grand magician.

  Lassen nodded and held back the chuckle that arose from the ridiculous grandeur that Kyien oozed. He wondered how such a man of innate evil could be such an incompetent ass at times. “Of course, High Marshal Kyien. We have indeed instituted much per your commands. Your first divisions of Commerce troops were deployed appropriately with the women and children as shields.” Lassen could not hold back his disdain for the idea. The concept that Culouth would use families as cover to get into position for war was sickening.

  Kyien watched the Field General’s face toil with the thought as Lassen raised his eyes to meet the sneer of the High Marshal. “Are my tactics to your disliking, Field General? Do you not have the stomach for war that you once had?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t like taking orders from pompous fools who would use the families of soldiers as shields,” whispered Fairhair to himself.

  The High Marshal looked at the man and turned away, clearing his throat. “You would do well to keep your subordinates in check, Field General. Fe’rein can be far more impatient than I to the mutters of those deemed lower,” snarled Kyien as Fairhair moved away from the Umordoc toward the window.

  “Of course, High Marshal,” replied Lassen with a curt bow and then shot a hot look at Fairhair. “Is Fe’rein going to be visiting the Stone Tower?”

  “He is indeed. These operations were his idea. He believed that Field Marshal T’elen would never dare to strike out against women and children.”

  Lassen cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “It is wise to believe that T’elen would possess such compassion. Would talks perhaps be more appropriate at this juncture? A formal threat of war has not been instituted by either side.”

  Kyien raised an eyebrow.

  “Have your boundary scouts checked in yet?”

  “No.” Lassen’s face darkened and he turned to Fairhair, his voice a bark. “Weren’t they set to report yesterday morning, lieutenant?”

  “They were, sir,” he answered.

  “Perhaps it was Saint T’elen who has found them, Field General. Perhaps they are dead in the snow as many more will be. This war is of her making.
It was born of her defection and subsequent attacks on the outposts of Culouth.” Kyien smiled as a clever liar does. “She has tried to carry out an assassination attempt on myself and our great mion on two separate occasions.”

  That struck the Field General as suspect. T’elen would submit to subterfuge when necessary, but assassination had never been her style. She loathed sneaking. “I am afraid that I am caught rather unaware. I was a personal friend of T’elen and would never have thought her capable.”

  The sneer returned.

  “Perhaps you do not know her as well as you believe you do. Power and the pursuit of power can drastically change a person, even someone such as T’elen.”

  Lassen tried to restrain his anger. He wished to slap the man across his face and stomp him into the ground with his boot. “Let us then move to more pressing tasks. To what honor do we owe your visit today?’

  “Indeed,” he replied with a suspicious nod.

  Motioning for the Umordoc to close the door behind them, they did so and then placed themselves in front of it like three large monoliths of death.

  “The Ninth Company of the Culouth Commerce, those who reside within the walls of the Stone Tower, are to be our first wave of defense against Illigard. In order to properly assemble the vast armies that I control, we need the space to do that. Thus, the evacuation of your troops from the Stone Tower is an absolute necessity. Your orders are to begin fortifications as close to the Illigard swamp border as possible.”

  Lassen stared at the man in surprise. Fairhair looked on as well, the words enough to draw him closer. “It is the middle of winter, High Marshal. Surely, we should wait for the signs of spring to begin such a campaign. Where Illigard is prepared for winter wars, we are not. I would lose many men in such an endeavor,” reasoned Lassen as politely as he could.

  T’elen’s words rang in his ears.

  “Fe’rein has spoken. These are his commands,” replied Kyien with a smile.

  “You would ask me to march almost a hundred and thirty thousand of my men onto a frozen field to build fortifications. To sleep in tents by fires while the Stone Tower, the place that has for so long been ours, is inhabited by Culouth Commerce soldiers?”