The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  “That is what I ask indeed,” he replied nastily.

  Lassen sighed as a man with few options left does. “We will vacate the Stone Tower as you command and take supplies south to the edge of the Illigard swamp. We will begin fortifications as you have instructed.”

  Fairhair looked at the Field General in horror. Turning to the satisfied look upon the High Marshal’s face he opened his mouth to speak, but Lassen placed a large hand on his shoulder to stop him. “But Field General…” whispered Fairhair.

  “It is done, lieutenant. We have our orders,” finished Lassen.

  The subject was closed as long as Kyien remained among them. Kyien looked from one to the other and nodded several times before he motioned for the Umordoc to open the doors. They did so without hesitation. Their loyalty was that of servitude and bondage, command and obedience.

  Kyien grabbed his purple cloak and swung it around his shoulders. Allowing it to drape down his back, he turned to eye Lassen once more. “Be sure to have your men out of here as soon as possible, Field General. The mion wishes to make this his base of operations.”

  The Umordoc closed the door behind them. Fairhair opened his mouth to say something, but Lassen held up a finger to silence him. The lieutenant crossed one foot over the other and tapped the floor impatiently as he gestured with his arm.

  “But, sir….”

  Lassen did not answer him right away. The roar of the transport was loud enough to be heard as it powered up and then moved away from the Stone Tower. “I did not wish Kyien to hear what I will say.”

  “He is crazy, sir. Him and Fe’rein. His orders are…”

  Lassen slammed his fist on the table, shaking the plates and cups that resided there. “Have the good sense to shut your mouth once in a while. Listen, do not speak. Understood?”

  Fairhair nodded.

  “Good. T’elen, as usual, was right. They do plan to use us as fodder, though now it is too late to lend the aid of the Stone Tower, for it is no longer ours to offer. However, there are about one hundred thousand soldiers whose lives I am not willing to throw away for that idiot who just left here.”

  Fairhair smiled broadly, but did not speak.

  “What I need is for you to go ahead to Illigard in plain clothes. If you show up wearing what you have now, they will kill you dead before you get fifty miles within the swamps. I want you to tell T’elen that Kyien has taken control of the Stone Tower. Tell her that there are now an army of men at their borders who wish to join their cause, but they require safe passage. We cannot merely march in and ask nicely.”

  “She would have half the army in a sling before we could even speak,” agreed Fairhair with an excited grin.

  “Either way, when we move out, I want you to get your ass there as fast as you can and relay that information. Once Kyien realizes that we aren’t building fortifications, we are going to be in a mess of trouble,” concluded Lassen as he folded his hands over one another and leaned back against his chair. His face was gravely serious. “Do not return once you reach Illigard. Have them send squadrons out so that it looks like an attack in case anyone is watching. If what Kyien said is correct, we no longer have boundary scouts.”

  Fairhair rose from his seat and tapped the table lightly as he stood. “I’ll do you proud, Field General. Do you want me to leave immediately?”

  “Get some of the other men together and make it appear as if you are the first to depart, and then break away toward Illigard.”

  “Of course, sir.” Lieutenant Fairhair saluted until Lassen nodded and then moved toward the door and threw it open. He looked out at the frozen, snow-covered courtyard of the Stone Tower. “I’m going to miss this place, even though this stone was as cold as the ice itself.”

  He pulled a hood over his features and lowered his head as he ducked into the winds. Negotiating the stairs, he was already far away from the brooding mind of Lassen.

  “So will I,” whispered Lassen as the darkness of the night flooded the cold day. The corner room of the Stone Tower, formerly of Field General Lassen, was quiet for the last time with the musings of a great general of Culouth.

  ⱷ

  The Barren Maiden

  The High Warrior stalked ahead of the scout that had tracked the two humans of whom the Gagnion’Fe’rein had spoken. Behind them trailed a long line of Umordoc foot soldiers. Their black bodies were like shadows on the crystal surface of the Barren Maiden. They loomed over the place where E’Malkai and Arile had crouched and stopped. The High Warrior raised a mighty fist and then opened it, signaling them to stop.

  “This where the Ai’mun’hereun and the White One entered,” uttered the scout with a subservient bow.

  The High Warrior surveyed the glassy reflection and prodded at the ground with his spear. He dragged it along the surface until the grooves of the lip of the entrance were revealed. His dark glass eyes grew excitedly.

  “The Fallen can no longer hide from us,” he growled.

  Lines of Umordoc cascaded behind him, their raiding party one hundred beasts strong. An entire legion charged with the eradication of thousands of humans; they were more than a match for the population of the Fallen. They circled the opening as the High Warrior wrenched the lip free and looked down into the darkness.

  “The hole must be widened,” he uttered.

  Stepping away, several more stepped in his place. They raised mighty hammers into the air and drove them against the ice. The hammering resonated on the Barren Maiden as they cracked away the defense between their two worlds.

  ⱷ

  E’Malkai

  The open common area of the Fallen had been cleared. At the center tethers had been stretched creating a circle of sorts. Around it the inhabitants of the surrounding houses gathered silently; their adobe homes shone dark and empty.

  In the middle of the circle a man stood.

  His head was shaved.

  His pale skin matched the rest of his body; muscled arms were coils of iron and veins that coursed over his skin like a road map. He wore a dark shirt and pants. The shirt was drawn thin over his frame and cut off at the biceps. He walked at the center of the makeshift circle, his hands cracking against each other.

  E’Malkai approached.

  Walking at his side, the aged figure of Mihen wore spectacles, whose chain draped over his neck and kept them from falling off completely.

  The wraps once again encapsulated E’Malkai. A familiar and almost comforting feeling came from them. He felt far more confident with them on.

  As he saw the man at the center of the ring, his eyes widened and he slowed. Mihen’s pushing hand kept him going forward until he neared Higald’s brazen figure. The chief looked at him dismissively, as if he mattered little. There was something beneath the look that E’Malkai recognized, a truth that the man hid well.

  “It seems that you endured a night with Mihen. I am pleased to see that his words did not cause your death before the rite of combat,” spoke Higald with his gravelly tone.

  “Huh?” E’Malkai looked at the leader quizzically.

  Mihen frowned at the grim smile on Higald’s face. “He believes that I spend far too much time talking about the past and not about the future of the Fallen. He would believe that a youth such as you would have died of boredom from my stories and histories.”

  E’Malkai was nonplussed. “I wished to hear about my father. I was honored by his zeal to speak with me at great length,” and then added for the benefit of the incorrigible smirk on Higald’s face, “which is more than I can say for the rest of this place.”

  Higald grunted. “There is still much about you that we are unable to believe. Seth Armen was a source of great strength during a very dark period in the history of the Fallen––times in which we condemned good men to exile. Seth was one such man. We were swayed by the words of a council. Needless to say, that council was disbanded when we found ourselves without a hunter and guide of the tundra. For many years we were rewarded with famine a
nd death as standards of living. Only in the past few years have we begun to advance once again. For a ghost of that dark past to resurface during a time of great peace is inconvenient.”

  E’Malkai nodded. The history of the Fallen was spotty at best. “I am sorry that my coming is a surprise to all of you. When my mother insisted that I find out more about my father and the Believer, I was compelled to come here. The trek here was an arduous one. However, seeing the halls in which my father walked is a delight.”

  “I wish that our caution was not necessary, but your being here is a herald of dark times. Far darker if you prove to be who you say you are,” replied Higald as he turned his attention back to the center of the ring and motioned with one hand. “If you please, we can solve all of this quickly.”

  E’Malkai stepped over the top of the fabric and watched the other man with a hard gaze. The man was about the same height, but his muscle mass was tremendous. The physical advantage was by far in the man’s favor.

  The youth watched the circle of the Fallen stare listlessly at the two warriors. He wondered what they thought of all this, if his coming was as much a portent as Higald, or even Mihen, believed. Bione entered the ring; his dark garb remained intact, and a sour look was spread across his features.

  “The Rite of Combat has been called by the outsider E’Malkai who talks in doublespeak of his past and his family name. This trial shall determine whether or not he speaks the truth. Do you, E’Malkai of the South, accept whatever occurs during the battle, be it death or life?”

  E’Malkai nodded grimly.

  This was not going according to his liking at all.

  Bione turned to the gnarled mass of muscle. “Warrior Mete, do you also accept the outcome of what shall happen here?”

  His grunt of acknowledgement reminded E’Malkai of Elcites. Bione nodded as he bowed and moved toward the far side of the circle before stepping over the fabric that held the ring in place. E’Malkai followed the man’s exit with his eyes and turned back to see that the warrior had moved toward him. His movement was graceful despite his size and obvious strength.

  The youth met the eyes of his combatant and felt a familiar sorrow. A vast emptiness churned in his stomach, for he knew what he must do. The words that the visage of his father had spoken were true. E’Malkai gritted his teeth, the muscles of his cheeks flexing in anguish. He would keep from releasing his power for as long as he could.

  The battle might be won without it.

  The man stopped as he was almost upon E’Malkai. The blank stare that he wore faded. “Seth Armen was a great man, and I hope that you are truly his son. There could be no greater child than the one born of that man.”

  E’Malkai blinked. He was blown away by the man’s words. “I profess to be nothing more than what I speak, the truth.”

  The man bowed.

  His eyes remained on E’Malkai.

  They both drew curved blades. E’Malkai had his father’s blade and Mete held a wicked-looking edge with three sharpened points, twin moons etched over one another. He carried it low, alongside his leg as they began to circle one another. E’Malkai felt a flush of adrenaline course through his blood. The exhilarating high of battle was something that he did not know how to comprehend properly.

  E’Malkai brandished the planedge away from his body. Choosing a loose grip on the blade, he assumed a fierce gaze of battle that mirrored an equally feral one on Mete’s face. The crowd that gathered did not cheer. Rather, it did not make a sound at all, as if they were collectively holding their breath in expectation of something more.

  Mete lashed out.

  E’Malkai parried.

  Twisting his blade alongside the other, E’Malkai backed away, uncomfortable at the proximity of the points of the blades. Mete paced back only for a moment before he lunged again, sweeping the blade parallel to the ground. E’Malkai pulled his lower body back, his head and shoulders held above the attack.

  He tried to pull back the rest of his torso.

  But it was not enough, for Mete brought the edge of the blade up perpendicular to the ground and slashed across once he was in line with E’Malkai’s face. The sharpened edge of the steel caught him twice. Two lengthwise slashes bled alongside his cheek as he let loose a startled cry of pain. Mete rolled over once and then pushed off with his legs. The strength of his legs flipped him back to his feet to survey his work.

  E’Malkai winced as he ran his hand along the twin gashes and brought his hand in front of his face. Seeing the blood on his hand, he felt his rage burn like a great cloud trapped within him. He gripped the hilt of his father’s blade tight enough to make his knuckles white and wiped his hand against his wraps, a thick red mark evident as he did so.

  Mete flashed a line of white teeth.

  E’Malkai charged forward with his shoulders lowered and the blade at his side. He arched as he leapt with the blade. Bringing it around the side of his body, he aimed for the warrior’s ribcage. Mete was ready for the attack and pivoted, placing one foot in E’Malkai’s path.

  Mete grasped E’Malkai’s lead hand at the wrist. With the point of the blade turned away, he applied pressure while moving his arms in a circle. He wrapped the blade around the youth’s arm, trapping them both before wrenching the planedge free.

  He continued to move E’Malkai’s arms in a circle, forcing him into the dirt face first. Those assembled showed no remorse or joy as Mete disarmed the youth. Mihen grimaced as he watched the youth’s pained expression when his face collided with the stone floors beneath the dirt.

  His blade in one hand, Mete stood over the youth and threw the planedge into the ground. The hilt stuck up and wavered as the blade dug into the earth. He wiped the sweat from his face and watched the youth for a moment.

  His chest heaved as he waited.

  E’Malkai breathed out, a puff of dirt and air scattered from his mouth. Blood oozed from inside his mouth and clumped with dirt. He grimaced at the coppery taste and blinked his eyes. His face hurt, the rush of blood bringing overwhelming heat to it. He licked his lips. The dryness in his throat constricting as he pushed himself up, his arms straightened out.

  He sighed as he rolled onto his back.

  The act sent pain through his arm, the one Mete had so deftly manipulated. He glowered at the heaving figure of Mete and licked his lips again. The flow of blood had slowed, but it trickled on his jaw and swam in his mouth. Flooded with spit, he did just that into the dirt as he slowly pushed himself to his feet and faced Mete again.

  The warrior seemed unaffected by the youth’s resilience and came forward again just as E’Malkai steadied himself. The sudden rush of the man offset the lethargy he felt. He stepped past the blade. The rush of air passed over him, and the smell of the man’s sweat was overpowering.

  Mete spun and regrouped, transferring his blade to the other hand as he lunged with a gnarled fist which sailed wide. The arc of the accompanying slash came across E’Malkai’s forearm and the youth once more grunted as his flesh split, and a red badge was earned.

  E’Malkai swung his foot at the warrior’s midsection, but fell short. Mete blocked it with his free hand and then slashed along the youth’s thigh. Crimson stained his wraps as he pulled away with a startled, pained sound.

  Mete slowed and watched as E’Malkai lowered his body, his left hand clasped over the flowing wound. A grimace spread across the youth’s features as he tried to circle. E’Malkai hopped slightly as he moved closer to the edge of the ring.

  He would not yield.

  His eyes were focused on Mete.

  The Fallen warrior looked at Higald. His almond eyes searched for an answer. The chieftain merely nodded. His mighty arms were laced over his chest. Mete sighed. The rite of combat ended in death, unless one yielded. E’Malkai would not. The Fallen warrior gripped his blade; its slickness was part sweat, part from what he must do.

  The laws of the Fallen were all that the tribe had in order to perpetuate its history. E’Malkai no longe
r looked like a youth. His hair fell loosely and wisps danced over his face, some plastered in sweat and others in blood. His blue eyes looked like a bruised storm on the horizon. Waves of anger flooded his mind.

  “E’Malkai of the South, if you yield I can spare your life. You may leave the Fallen a free man. If not, I must take your life. It is the law of the rite that you have invoked.”

  E’Malkai looked at the warrior, swallowing hard as he tried to stand as straight as he could. “My father is Seth Armen, and I will not yield unless that is recognized as the truth,” countered E’Malkai, his voice steely.

  His cold gaze fell on Higald. The chief met his glare and shook his head. The shock of his hair shook with him as if it added authority to his decision. E’Malkai opened his mouth like a beached fish. Blood stained his teeth. He licked his tongue across them as he hobbled forward. Mete shook his head once more.

  This was not how it was meant to be.

  Energy prickled across E’Malkai’s skin. It was subtle, a warmth that enveloped him comfortably. He began to glow, a slight hue that Mete did not notice, nor the sullen Fallen who were gathered. The youth had not called upon the power, yet it manifested as his blood ran and his heart raced. The Fallen warrior was worth a hundred normal men, even one as exceptional as E’Malkai. It was this glimpse of the deeper well that dwelled within the youth that would turn the tide.

  Mete brandished the blade again, but this time with less urgency, and moved toward E’Malkai. The point was stained already with the blood of Armen. He thrust it out at the youth’s torso, only to have it knocked away. E’Malkai struck Mete across the face––aided by the considerable power that ebbed through him––and stood the man up. The sudden speed of E’Malkai proved too much for the seasoned warrior.

  Glowing hauntingly, E’Malkai pressed his hand against the chest of the Fallen warrior. The world was reduced to only them. Sound dissipated. The discharge from the youth’s palm lifted the more skilled warrior into the air. Mete fell onto his back. Dirt rose around him in a frivolous cloud.