by Dan O'Brien
“General Lassen wanted to aid Illigard. That man did not want him to help. He wanted you to die,” he spoke with a soft sound.
Fairhair nearly leapt out of his skin.
He lunged before Xi’iom could restrain him––though not before Elcites wrapped his gigantic arms around him and lifted him off the ground.
Fredrick stared wide-eyed, fear spreading across his face.
“That must have been difficult. You may go, Fredrick,” Leane cooed as best she could.
Fredrick nodded and allowed himself to be led from the room and out into the cold without a word. After the door had slammed behind him, T’elen nodded to Elcites.
Fairhair fell free from the giant’s grasp. “That is complete drivel. Why would I come here if I killed Lassen? I didn’t even know he was dead,” shouted the lieutenant.
T’elen allowed herself a simple smile. “Indeed. I did not say that I believed him, merely that there were conflicting stories. What we believe is that he is an agent of Culouth, and that Lassen’s death was orchestrated after you had left the Stone Tower.”
Fairhair’s anger slackened, but he was still bruised from the drunkard’s words. “Bastards killed Lassen,” spoke Fairhair as he turned and fumed, his fists clenched at his sides.
“What is it that your general wanted? Xi’iom said that you had a message from the Field General.”
Fairhair sighed.
“He wanted you to know that the soldiers of the Stone Tower were at your disposal. That he wished to lend aid to Illigard. The drunkard did not lie about that,” he replied, the anger not yet dissolved.
T’elen turned to Leane. “A couple hundred thousand troops: that could be rather significant in the coming days,” she whispered.
“Doesn’t matter now,” Fairhair commented.
T’elen turned to him with her characteristic look of indifference. “Why?”
The lieutenant paced back toward the entrance, his hands locked behind his back. “Culouth went to some trouble to send that man ahead of me, to make sure that his information reached you first. I doubt that was the end of their planning. They have by this time informed the troops that I killed General Lassen, and they will want blood. Neither my insistence, nor yours, will make them think otherwise.”
T’elen’s face darkened.
“You are right. He thought well ahead.”
Leane cast a disapproving look. “Could have been Fe’rein’s doing. He was sneaky long before he became an All-god.”
“What about Fredrick? There is no doubt in my mind that he is an agent of Culouth,” challenged Fairhair.
“He is a broken man,” spoke Elcites with a sad nod.
“We cannot send him back. He does not know much, but the little he does could be helpful to them. Either way we have to keep him here,” reasoned T’elen as she placed her fists on her hips.
“What of the border scouts?” queried Leane as she turned to Xi’iom.
The commander shifted on his feet.
“Domaen will not be returning to us. His squadron was taken just north of here, very strange circumstances. The border scouts have been taken care of and what little information they possessed was retrieved. The only useful morsel was the smuggling of soldiers by the thousands under cover of women and children.”
“Strange circumstances?” queried T’elen, her scowl deepened.
Xi’iom nodded.
“It appeared as if they were roasted alive, completely ravaged. I do not think it was desert creatures as the southern tribes insist, or wild Umordoc. They have not strayed beyond the northern marker since the Border Wars.”
T’elen nodded grimly.
“What could it have been? Domaen was invaluable.”
“It was Fe’rein,” stated Leane.
“How do you know?” queried T’elen, suspicion in her voice.
“I would agree with Leane ilsen. It looks like something that would have been perpetuated by the mion. He can be quite cruel,” conceded Elcites with a nod of his shaggy mane.
“These are perilous times indeed. Where will people turn when they cannot find the strength in themselves?”
Leane caught herself before speaking of E’Malkai. Instead, she placed a reassuring hand on the Field Marshal’s shoulder. “They will find a way. Illigard will be the source of their hope.”
T’elen looked at her. “And what of your son, to whom do you look for hope? Hope for E’Malkai? Without word of his safety, of his progress…”
Elcites cleared his throat.
“He is strong, but the tundra can break the will of any man.”
Leane’s face steeled at the comment. “The tundra has never broken an Armen, and will not start with E’Malkai. He will survive, it is in his blood.”
Elcites nodded.
T’elen did as well, though emotion filled her eyes ever so briefly. She cleared her throat and returned her hands to the maps; her gnarled fists pressed against the table as the others gathered around.
The fate of an empire rested in their hands.
ⱷ
Fe’rein
Fe’rein walked through the streets of what had been Duirin. The scorched houses smoldered in the winter air, and the walls that had stood for centuries crumbled as if they were day-old bread. It had been a city for those who wished to flee from Culouth.
Now, it was no more.
Umordoc walked farther behind him, their dark bodies adorned with crimson leathers––some held rifles, others pikes and sickles as their ancestors had. Human bodies: women and children lay ashen and brittle. Bones burnt until there was no more water within them, dried as if it was the dead of summer deep in the desert.
The siege had lasted exactly two hours.
Fe’rein had flown over them, his shadowed form an albatross in the gray skies overhead. He rained shadow fire down upon them, innocents and soldiers alike consumed by his wrath.
His show of power was mostly that: a ruse.
A distraction meant to give the soldiers on the ground an advantage. With each passing day, Fe’rein felt his power dissipate like darkness in the face of the rising sun. However, by the time a defense had been mounted, Umordoc had breached the outer walls and begun their savage assault.
He walked now, the messiah of a fallen people, their skulls and flesh crunched underfoot. The mion surveyed his massacre as an artist would a painting upon a canvas. He knew that there was no threat left in Duirin.
Y’re had fled along with E’Malkai’s mother south to Illigard.
The courtyard that had once been lined with green trees and berry bushes was wilted and burnt. The scraggly fingers of the branches that remained were arcane reminders of nature.
An Umordoc captain walked toward him, their social structure different under command of the mion. “Lord Fe’rein, we have found a survivor,” he growled.
Fe’rein turned slowly, his mind numb and humming like a struck stone all at once. “I ordered none to be left alive,” he answered at a half-turn.
The Umordoc captain did not hesitate.
“He is an old man. He did not resist.”
Fe’rein sighed. He did not wish to see the fear in the man’s eyes, the hatred that he too felt in his own heart. “Bring him forward.”
They pushed the old man in front of Fe’rein. His wild mane of white hair matched his beard. The crazed look in his eyes spoke not of vengeance, but of an unknown fear.
Fe’rein faced him.
He recognized the face.
The glint of that recognition was enough; Fe’rein knew this man before his ascension. “What is your name?” barked Fe’rein, his patience an extinct beast.
The man looked at him strangely and then brought his fingers to his face, wiggling them. He spoke to the spindly appendages in a hurried voice. “The shadow man wishes to know my name,” he whispered.
Fe’rein rolled his eyes.
The man had lost his mind. “I do not have the time for this, old man. Tell me your name or I will
end your life before you can utter another word.”
The old man peeked out from behind his writhing fingers. They stopped abruptly, still caught in a twist of knuckles. “I am Hugo, and you are––you were a boy. Yes, a boy who I had seen below.”
Fe’rein took a step forward and towered over the frail man.
His shadow covered him completely.
“What are you babbling about?”
“The tunnels––the day we escaped. You were there with another, a dark man,” he muttered. His fingers were again a swirl of motion: incomprehensible and nonsensical motion that only a man such as he could create.
“You were the one who escaped with my brother,” whispered Fe’rein in horror.
The mion did know the man. He was there after Summer had been destroyed, when the hatred had taken him completely––before he betrayed and killed his brother.
He nodded furiously. “Yes. That was me as I was before.”
Fe’rein turned. The grim line of his mouth deepened. He stared off, gazing at the smoldering homes and blowing snow. “Release him.”
“My lord,” spoke the Umordoc captain in surprise.
He placed a hand on Hugo’s shoulder, keeping him still. The muscles of Fe’rein’s face tightened. Ghosts of the past seemed unable to leave him in peace. “You heard me. Set him loose outside of the walls with a pack in tow. He is free.”
Bowing, the Umordoc pulled Hugo away, the man mumbling once more. His muttered words might as well have been in another language. Fe’rein felt the touch of those he served before he heard their voices.
He stood alone among so much death.
Child of Darkness, Creator of Destruction. We summon you.
Fe’rein gritted his teeth.
A meeting with the tribunal was as far from his mind as anything could be. This war with Illigard would soon become a costly one. The forces of Illigard were craftier than the soldiers pulled from Culouth: men soft from lack of action––from sitting in taverns and whoring––were now agents of war.
Illigard settled border disputes and all other manner of skirmishes that took place on the Lower Plane on a daily basis. What they lacked in sheer numbers was made up in leadership and a desire to survive.
They had a purpose.
We wish you to return here to us. There is much we must speak of.
Fe’rein allowed his anger to flow free.
The shadow energy exploded from within him. The arc of it crashed into the heavens, splitting the gray clouds with shadow fire. Energy overtook him as it always did, but he felt less in control of it than he had ever before.
Something else controlled his actions now.
He lowered himself slightly, his muscles tensing.
Then pushing up, his body hovered.
Rising until he was airborne, he then extended his arms out in front of him. Air flew over and under him as he climbed into the atmosphere. He crashed through the mist, emerging atop the nebulous mass. Wisps and striations mixed with his shadow energy, twirling about him as his body spun and then leveled.
The dome of Culouth was at the very apex of the world. Normally, there was a crystalline glow from within as he approached––the flawless texture like a virgin pearl.
That had changed.
A dark cloud had formed within the dome and circulated like poison. Technicians and soldiers who had been in charge of the machinery that regulated Culouth were called to war. The long neck of machinery that extended out from underneath Culouth eventually formed into a bulbous, spherical entity at its bottom: the keep of the tribunal, of the Intelligence, for they were one and the same.
There were several openings along the outer texture of the dome, but most had been abandoned for the call to war. The only entrance available was a service duct along the vein of the machinery, a place of smoke and shadow that led deeper into the ducts and airways of Culouth.
Fe’rein entered the duct system.
It quickly became a maze in which he had to dodge one way or another to navigate the narrow, and sometimes sudden, turns. It soon opened into the chambers of the Intelligence.
The door came to him in the darkness as it always did; appeared as if it knew he had been called. It was not unreasonable to believe that their power extended this far, and perhaps deeper yet. Fe’rein stepped into the dim light. He found himself in a cavern, one hollowed out of metal and bone.
The mion stepped lightly.
The darkness unnerved him.
There was something different about it this time. Something watched him now as it had not before. “You summoned me,” he called out into the darkness.
The echo answered him with his own words, though distorted and bloated. Lights hummed to life. “Why did you summon me here?”
The back of the cavern seemed to fluctuate as if it was a wave upon the ocean. Fe’rein cringed as he witnessed the Intelligence as he had never before.
Cables ran into the walls and wound back to a centralized mass. It was a machine that filled the cavern; three ports were situated across its face. Pixilated viewscreens showed three distorted faces, vaguely human, that stared out at Fe’rein. From each screen, more cables ran into the lower half of its mass.
It sizzled and churned like molten steel.
“Your war does not increase our influence,” echoed the voice. It was the child, the giggling girl he had remembered. Though there was no mirth or feeling in the voice.
“You divide those who would serve us,” scolded the second, the grandfather.
“Each day the Ai’mun’hereun grows closer to Dok’Turmel, to where the true power resides. Your war distracts those who would destroy him,” echoed the final voice, the one from which darkness seemed to pour.
Fe’rein’s anger boiled, but he held his words. To see the Intelligence free of pretense was frightening. “This war is necessary. Field Marshal T’elen stands opposed to all of Culouth, including the tribunal.”
Static erupted from the mass of machine: a groan that almost felt human. “The soldier does not concern us. Wars will rage and many will die, but the Ai’mun’hereun must not rise,” spoke the first voice.
“We did not transcend time and space to recreate a world so that the Original Creator could find us again. We will not allow what we have made to be destroyed,” screamed the second voice with the pitch of a malfunctioning machine.
“You may believe that you have power, that you are the Gagnion’Fe’rein. You are a pawn. The real power is in a place where you can never go,” spoke the third voice.
Fe’rein scowled.
“Why have you called me here?” he challenged.
“Your anger is your greatest asset, Ryan Armen of the Fallen,” rumbled the third voice. The illumination of the chamber grew and faded with the inflection of the voice.
“Do not use that name, it haunts me.”
“That is your name,” spoke the second voice with equal rage.
“When the Ai’mun’hereun takes your life it shall be renamed in Dok’Turmel. This is the way of death. The dark road to the underworld is paved in the names that the Creator has taken,” explained the first voice, mirth returned.
“Dok’Turmel does not concern me. Illigard and T’elen are what vex me. They are a thorn in the present,” shouted Fe’rein as he glared at the presumptuous forms of the Intelligence.
“As well they should, but do not forget the trust and power we have placed in you,” cautioned the second voice.
The mion sliced his hand through the air.
“I took this power. It is mine to do with as I wish.”
The shadow energy began to ripple, little waves distorting the air around him. The machine was incapable of emotion or conveying feelings, but its words were an amalgamation of shock and frustration.
“You overestimate your worth to us, human. We have lived through the ages, centuries and generations of warlords and would-be tyrants who laid siege to this world, and others, in our name,” boomed the second voice.<
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“We are connected to this planet. Only Dok’Turmel and the domain of the Ai’mun’hereun evade us. These things are shielded from our power by those who would seek to destroy us. Yet here you stand, an insect believing it is more powerful than the sun,” continued the first voice. The shrill pitch of the girl’s voice echoed in the chamber.
The metallic visage of the Intelligence shimmered.
A reaper appeared.
A dark cloak and the steel of its sickle made it appear as the legends painted it. It extended one of its bony fingers forward; the joints cracked as it retracted the skeletal appendages.
Waves of time and space poured from the long extensions as it became the image of a man: complete with a short gray beard and equally gray hair. It was the very picture of a grandfather: glasses and thick, coiled muscles from working outside most of his life juxtaposed with the grim line of his anger spread across grizzled features.
That faded into something else: the image of a small child who was no more than ten. Her black shoes and dark skirt were marred with blood; her white blouse scorched in thunder and ash, face mangled.
As she moved forward, she smiled.
Insects poured from her mouth, covering her body until it was nothing more than a writhing mass of carapaces and twitching antennae. A dark light resonated from within and overtook the insects. A new image appeared, born from the crawling bodies: the man whose life Fe’rein had sacrificed for power, Seth Armen.
The visage smirked: a terrible, ravenous smile that would never have graced Seth’s face. “Hey there, brother. Seems as if you are in crisis,” he spoke, the voice haunting. His mouth moved as Seth’s would have. Brown hair was cropped short as he never wore it; a goatee formed around his mouth.
“You are not my brother,” replied Fe’rein as he backed up.
The image of Seth shook his head. “How could I be Seth? You killed me after all. I am here as a reminder that those you serve can do what they wish with the dead.”
“I do not believe that. They said they cannot control Dok’Turmel. You cannot be my brother. You are an illusion.”
The visage paced toward him, his hands clasped behind his back as he did so. “Life is an illusion, especially this one. This planet, these people: no one is what they seem. The Fallen is no more real than gods walking among men. Yet you are here, the very image of what an All-god would be. The Fallen are real as well.”