The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  Lassen coughed hard.

  The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He could only manage to raise himself to all fours and look up at the duo. “Why wait to kill me? Why take the time to talk?”

  Fe’rein approached him.

  The wisps of shadows danced on his shoulders and over his shaven skull. He bent close to Lassen. “I wish to see you suffer as you cling to hope before watching it disappear. Your plots against me, an All-god, and the Intelligence will be undone.”

  The mion struck him across the back, pushing Lassen into the puddle of blood. Backing away, a look of disgust spread across Fe’rein’s features. “Lower beings and their fluids,” scolded Fe’rein as he rubbed his boot against the stone.

  Lassen’s heart sank, his worst fears realized in Fe’rein’s words. There would be confusion on the battlefield. The men of the Stone Tower who had served under him for the better part of decade would fall under the blades of those who they should have fought beside.

  “The Ai’mun’hereun is not a––myth,” rasped Lassen.

  Kyien ran forward and kicked the Field General in the face. The High Marshal seemed less in control of his rage than normal. “You are a fool to speak those words. No one is going to save Illigard, just as no one is going to be your savior now,” spat Kyien with as much venom as he had in his bones.

  Lassen watched the dark lord pace.

  His eyes were searching the floor when he felt a stabbing pain in his side. Expecting a mortal wound of some kind, he instead realized that it was his blade. He drew it while he kept his eyes on them.

  The knife slipped free without a sound.

  Lassen tucked it beneath his hand as Kyien turned to him again, awaiting a response so that he could barrage him with more words. The Field General tried to push himself to his feet and managed only to lean back against the corner of the wall. The blade was tucked beneath his left wrist as he lazily brought his eyes up to the maniacal gaze of Kyien.

  “Have you nothing to say?” roared Kyien as his fists shook.

  Lassen swallowed hard. He summoned courage and strength from within and tried to steady his voice as much as he could. His voice was barely a hoarse whisper. “You were wrong.”

  “What?” snapped Kyien as he edged closer.

  Lassen swallowed again. The lump in his throat was like a piece of bread that was far too large to swallow. “I can save myself from one thing.”

  Kyien smiled.

  The frown lifted and a sneer replaced it.

  “How might you do that?”

  And then his eyes widened as he saw the glint of the blade.

  Lassen lunged at Kyien, erasing the smug look on his face.

  Fe’rein proved too quick.

  Raising a hand, Lassen stopped mid-lunge.

  The mion threw the man to the ground.

  Much to Lassen’s horror, he watched as his hand that held the blade moved involuntarily toward his face. Jamming it into his own eye with a vicious thrust, Fe’rein remained emotionless as he watched the Field General stab himself.

  The force of it made Lassen jump, and then convulse. His eyes glazed over as tears and blood flowed freely from them. Then they shifted to a vacant look that seemed to stare far beyond those before him.

  Fe’rein approached the dead Field General, his shadow trail fading. He bent close and grasped the man’s chin. A river of blood flowed from the wound.

  The knife stuck out awkwardly. Fe’rein brought his finger against the blade and traced it close to the man’s eye. Cocking his head to the side, he watched the blood squeeze from the wound.

  “Bring M’iordi to the Stone Tower. It is time that he played a more physical role in this war,” called Fe’rein. His attention was captured by the slumped, deceased body of Lassen. A morbid fixation required him to look at the man in such an intense way that even Kyien took a step back at the crudeness of it.

  “And if he refuses?” replied Kyien.

  He averted his eyes as the eyeball fell from the socket and plopped onto the floor with a sickening sound. The sphere had been severed and the blade still stuck through the cold, dark socket.

  Fe’rein picked up the pieces of the eyeball and held them in his hand. A viscous fluid seeped from them and pooled. He stood and turned to Kyien; his cupped hand extended toward the High Marshal.

  “Tell him our enemies are willing to give far more to their cause than some would to their mion. Tell him it is not a request, but a command.” The Dark Creator fiddled with the pieces, pushing them around before he threw them on the table and turned to Frederick.

  “Flee to Illigard. Tell them that you were in service to Lassen as a spy against Culouth. Tell them that I have killed Lassen and that Fairhair is my spy. Do whatever it takes to convince them.” Frederick bumbled to his feet and bowed his head a few times. “You must reach Illigard before the lieutenant. Is that understood?”

  Frederick nodded and stumbled out the door, becoming sick once he was out of eyesight, though not earshot, of the High Marshal and Fe’rein. Kyien looked outside as the gray skies darkened to black and sighed. His head bowed, the weight and burden on his shoulders was his own making.

  “Is it wise to send that sniveling idiot?” Kyien watched as he staggered through the snow, laughing and crying as he did so. His mind was no longer his own just as Fe’rein was no longer the man called Ryan Armen.

  “No better spy than a fool. He knows nothing of what we would do, nor can he comprehend what they plan. He will do as I have instructed. His mind belongs to me now.” Then as if an afterthought, he added. “He will neither rest nor eat until he reaches his destination. He will reach Illigard first.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Kyien sat down into a chair.

  The cold made him feel tired, worn beyond his years.

  Fe’rein ignored the question and stared at Lassen’s lifeless body. “On the tundra you learn that sleep is death. It may be a slow and peaceful one, but death nonetheless. If you allow your guard to slip, there are things in the cold that will eat you while you sleep, tear off layers of flesh.”

  Kyien looked at him boldly.

  Fe’rein met the gaze; his was far deeper and more intense. “This war is fought in winter and shall be won in winter. If you doze off because it is cold or because there seems to be nothing happening, then T’elen is going to sneak up on you and ram a dagger into your eye as the Field General has done here.”

  Kyien was unimpressed, though inwardly a stab of fear struck his heart. “We have an army that is almost a million strong without the Stone Tower. She will fail.”

  Fe’rein raised his hand, a vortex of pitch black power swirled in his palm. A shadow crossed his face as its fire leapt from his hands and consumed Lassen. His body disintegrated into ashes, which were swept away by the gales that ripped through the keep and out to the sea.

  “There is a power that will come. Whether or not it will be the nonsense that Illigard believes it to be does not concern me. You may begin to think that you are beyond my reach, perhaps not capable of feeling my wrath. I would have thought you wiser than that.”

  Kyien shirked away, his brazen stance quivering. “I would never assume so much, my mion. My service is to you and the Intelligence, for you among all others can see our path when we cannot.”

  Fe’rein flicked his hand back. A mass of shadow energy crept from his fingers in a bulbous web and clouded Kyien, forcing him from the room and out into the cold courtyard of the Stone Tower. The web flooded the open space in darkness and then as it dissipated, the door was shut again. The High Marshal sighed and wished for the days before the coming of the mion. It had been he who people trembled before: High Marshal Kyien, bearer of pain, not Fe’rein, bastard son of the tundra.

  ⱷ

  Fairhair

  The lieutenant plowed through the snow and cursed himself in soft, harsh tones as the frozen precipitation continued to fill his boots despite his best efforts. The watchtowers of Illig
ard now extended many miles into the swamps, twenty or thirty perhaps.

  They were dark black steeples that reached toward the gray clouds of winter. Fairhair had walked for the better part of four days, not bothering to sleep except when he found a suitable conclave a day and a half into his journey, a beige outcropping in which he could still hear the crashing of the waves below.

  His mind had begun the slow degeneration that comes from such travel, a grueling trek that might cost him his life. He knew if he died that perhaps hundreds of thousands more would.

  Illigard was the foremost thing in his mind.

  The words of the Field General echoed in his head.

  There were hundreds of veins that sprung off the main road toward Illigard. Fairhair could swear by all that was holy, upon the Ai’mun’hereun himself, that he had stayed on the straightest of them. Yet, Illigard was still no closer, and the rolling hills seemed so much like those that he had just crossed.

  Suddenly, a horror gripped him.

  Had he become lost?

  Had he actually veered from his path in a stupor somewhere in the past twenty miles or so? Would he be condemned to wander the slowly worsening hills until he either found his way back or wandered north into colder lands where an icy death waited?

  He slowed and felt the slump of his body as the wind swirled around him. The snow on the ground and the new powder that fell around him blew across his covered face. He had wrapped a dark strip of fabric around his features several times, leaving space for his nostrils and eyes only.

  His feet continued to move even though his body had instructed them to stop. He felt a cold chill as his foot plunged through the snow and deep into a pocket of water. Letting out a choked scream, he watched as half his leg was buried. He fell back and clawed at the ground desperately as the snow began to run with water, melting the delicate platform on which he had thought himself safe.

  His mind raced, primal instincts gripped his senses as he frantically dug his hands into the snow until he pulled free. The bottom half of his left leg was soaked, the moisture-darkened fabric showing the extent of the accident.

  He pulled himself to a sitting position and stretched his legs out. Cold winds hit his wet skin and he knew that in no time his legs would be useless, that he would suffer from frostbite and die on the spot, reduced to a meal for winter predators. He forced himself to his feet, a thickness already beginning to grow in his cold limbs as he staggered parallel to where the snow had given way.

  He looked out in the distance, and his heart almost leapt from his chest. There in front of him, no more than a couple hundred feet away, was a dark shadow. A human shadow, and then another. They bore no colors of allegiance, nothing except white suits marred with black splotches, the camouflage of war.

  Fairhair did not have time to weigh his options, so he stumbled forward, waving his hands and falling forward. His leg stiffened like concrete. He cried out as he twisted his ankle, the sensation one that washed over his stomach and face.

  He felt like he was going to be sick.

  It had been days since he had eaten, and he knew that he would throw up only blood and water if he did. Fighting back the vigorous pounding in his head, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on the shadows.

  He rolled onto his back desperately and clutched his legs, rubbing them to try and warm them. He knew that he was fading and doing so fast. His breath slowed––the edges of his vision blurring as darkness began to close in around him. He saw a dark form bend; a glint of steel shone at its side.

  *

  Fairhair nearly jumped when he awoke.

  There was still darkness all around him. He blinked his eyes several times and rubbed them hard; trying to feel out what was real. Reaching his hand up, he touched at the darkness and felt taut fabric and allowed his hand to drop. He was safe, or perhaps he was dead.

  He couldn’t be certain.

  Fairhair groaned as he tried to lift his legs and found that there was little feeling, only a faint realization that they were still there, which he was thankful for given his former state. He did not know how long he had been unconscious or exactly what had happened during and after his collapse.

  Fairhair did know that the warmth of the tent was a comfort. Wintry gales blew against the enclosure. A shadow crept toward him. Only the sounds of the crunched snow beneath its boot caught the lieutenant’s attention. Frantically, he tried to raise himself.

  The veins in his neck were ready to burst.

  His face turned red, but it was no use.

  He laid back; breath exploded from his lungs and his hands shook. The lieutenant tried to concentrate on the warmth around him. He knew he should be thankful for whatever entity was responsible for placing him here.

  The sound stopped, and the lieutenant froze.

  His mind sharpened as he searched for a weapon with his eyes, but found nothing. When the tent flap opened, the lieutenant found that he pulled his hands to his chest and screamed. It was not a manly resonance of his masculinity, but a childish, frightened scream. He was abashed as he saw human eyes stare at him. The rest of the face was covered in the part white, part shadow fabric he had seen before.

  The figure pulled the fabric down around his face and smiled. His tan features wore a light beard. “You took quite a fall. Your legs would have been useless in a short time. You were lucky.” There was darkness in the hazel eyes of Xi’iom.

  “You are from Illigard, aren’t you?” queried Fairhair with a struggle. He realized for the first time that he was hungry.

  The commander nodded. “Commander Xi’iom. You are a Commerce soldier, from the Stone Tower. A deserter perhaps?” There was venom in his question, a hard inflection placed upon the word deserter.

  Fairhair swallowed hard.

  Lassen had wanted him to speak to T’elen directly. Then again he had said to convey his orders no matter what, that the information needed to be delivered. “I am a lieutenant to Field General Lassen of the Stone Tower. He sent me with an urgent message for Field Marshal T’elen.”

  Xi’iom sat just inside the tent. His presence made the small tent seemed cramped. “You are some way from Illigard and without gear to survive such a journey. Your uniform is that of a civilian as well. Why endanger your life?”

  Fairhair looked at the cool demeanor of the commander. He wondered if all of those in Illigard seem unfazed with a leader like T’elen and a messiah on their side.

  “Kyien has evacuated the Stone Tower to fill it further with Commerce soldiers from Culouth. Thousands arrive each day, more than three quarters of a million men already. Lassen wanted T’elen to know that troops were being transported using families as cover and that Fe’rein would participate in the battles to come.”

  The commander looked away and nodded. “This I have heard from another, though he believes there to be a million or more already on the Lower Plane. Your General Lassen would not have been foolhardy enough to cross the swamps in winter. It would seem that Kyien would do so without hesitation.”

  “I fear that the soldiers of the Stone Tower are going to be used as an example for Illigard, to show them the might of Culouth.”

  “Indeed,” replied Xi’iom with a considerable grunt as he placed a hand to his face. He rubbed at his chin as he stared back at the snow. “We are two days from Illigard. Perhaps three now, given that you cannot walk and will have to be carried. T’elen will wish to hear this from you. I intend on seeing that you do.”

  “I do not plan to die here.”

  Xi’iom grew grim. “There are scouts that we dispatched north of here. If they were correct, then Kyien may have already sent a legion into the swamps. Your injury will delay us.”

  Fairhair froze.

  Commerce mercenaries did not sound promising at all. “Are you certain that they are already in the swamps? Commerce sweepers will not ask our allegiance. They will shoot and then examine our cold, dead carcasses to find out what side we fought for.”

  Fai
rhair tried to shrug to amplify his words.

  Xi’iom turned to him, his gaze hard. “There is no need to tell me of sweepers. I have seen many things in service of Illigard and of the raped and pillaged border villages that sweepers had deemed traitorous. My men and I, we caught up to some of them. We slaughtered a platoon, forty-five of them atop their repulsor bikes. Do not fear them, lieutenant. Fear that Kyien has let loose an Umordoc squad. They will eat you and me alive. And when they do, we will hear our eyes pop and our skin sizzle.”

  The lieutenant swallowed hard and averted his eyes from the intense, clear glare that Xi’iom had taken on. “Do you have something to eat?”

  His voice was weak.

  The talk of sizzling flesh did not hinder his appetite.

  He had heard worse.

  It was not the consequences that he feared, but the blatant ferocity of the Umordoc horde that Kyien commanded. They were not like the guardians who served the Houses of the Greater Commerce. Instead, they were as feral as they were believed to still be in the north, though smaller and incapable of thought outside a tight group.

  Xi’iom produced a strip of jerky and handed it to Fairhair. He took it gingerly despite the savage hunger that gnawed at his stomach. “This should be enough to make you sleep again. You must rest as much as you can. Once we begin again, the speed of the travel will keep you awake.”

  The lieutenant nodded absently. The strip was held in both hands as he tore at it with his teeth. The muscles of his jaw flexed in unison as he chewed. “Will we be safe once we reach Illigard?”

  Xi’iom looked over his shoulder. “Safe enough.”

  The commander pushed back the flaps of the tent and departed into the winds and snow. They flapped back into place, leaving Fairhair alone as he gnawed at the first food he had eaten in days.

  ⱷ

  E’Malkai

  E’Malkai opened his eyes. Sleep had not come to him as Mihen had promised. The ache of his muscles and wounds seemed unaffected by the time that he had spent in the warm recesses of the tub. He ran his hand down the line of his jaw, the lack of beard there comforting.