The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  Fe’rein watched the image of his brother.

  Each movement was as it had been.

  “You once told me that dreams were all we had. That without them life was a list of tasks that you can never finish. You would say that life is not really life, but perception. Do not preach this philosophical nonsense. I am alive, not you, brother.”

  The visage laughed.

  Its teeth sparkled.

  “See there, you betray the words you have spoken. You called me brother when I could not be. You said yourself that I was not, but you speak to me as if I was.”

  Fe’rein held his tongue.

  The muscles of his cheek flexed angrily.

  The visage shook a cautionary finger. “Anger is your power. The rage that wells inside you is what made you kill me. You sought vengeance and you knew that I would not take lives for payment. I would have battled those who you serve.”

  “You are the Intelligence,” spoke Fe’rein through tight lips.

  “I am perspective, one that you did not have,” corrected the visage.

  “What is the point of this? I know that I killed my brother.”

  The image shook its head.

  “This is because you do not know your place, brother.”

  The visage grasped Fe’rein and lifted him into the air by his neck. The mion kicked and groaned as he wrapped his own hands around the one that held him so simply. “There was a time when I could have killed you on a whim.”

  Fe’rein gurgled. His eyes were wide open, his pulse racing. He did not have the power, the strength to which he had become so accustomed.

  “I––what…”

  The visage tilted his head. “Is that fear I smell, brother? Your precious power is insignificant here. The Intelligence is your master. You are their slave.”

  Fe’rein gurgled. The veins in his throat pulsed and his face reddened as he tried to speak. “What…”

  “I cannot hear you, brother. Where is the venom? The anger that you wield as if it were a panacea. Your power is borrowed, a perversion of what once was, and will be again. Your foolhardiness and disregard has caused more trouble than you could have ever imagined. Set things into motion that cannot be reversed.”

  “He––is––dead,” croaked Fe’rein.

  The visage scoffed and shook his head. “Are you a fool, brother? Would we be so upset if the boy had perished? He survived your little plan. He walks among the Fallen,” replied the visage, anger seeping into his voice. Allowing him to drop, he stepped away. Wiping his hands against one another, he paced away from Fe’rein’s crumpled figure. “Your idiocy knows no bounds, brother. You were a fool when you were Ryan Armen, and now as mion you have come unhinged at the seams.”

  Fe’rein rubbed his throat with his hand and glowered at the towering image of his brother. “There was much that was hidden from me. Seclusion among the Fallen made the world so much smaller. The greater truths of this world evaded me.”

  “That is something that you should have thought of before you killed me in cold blood for this power,” mocked the image, half-turning to the kneeling Fe’rein.

  “There is no way he could have survived an assault from a yotikai. How could he have escaped?”

  The visage sighed. “The son of Armen can feel his power now. He has more strength than you can fathom, brother. The pilgrimage is his to follow, and he shall do so to its end. There is nothing that you can do now. Hope that the journey into Dok’Turmel ends his life; you are lucky that Dok’Turmel does not align with either side. Death is its own judge.”

  “What is it that you would have me do?” queried Fe’rein.

  The visage stopped and turned to Fe’rein.

  His cruel features sullied the memory of Seth, but Fe’rein couldn’t bring himself to say those words. “Win your war, child of darkness, and prepare for the battle with the Ai’mun’hereun. He will come for you if he survives Dok’Turmel. You may leave.”

  The image of Seth brushed at the air with his hand. Fe’rein felt the pang of the darkness and his eyes shut involuntarily, allowing the shadow energy to burn in his wake.

  ⱷ

  E’Malkai

  The library of the Fallen was a remnant of the past. Three walls were filled to the ceiling with books, some wrapped in oiled cloth and some dust jackets that had long since grown brittle. Two long wooden tables ran lengthwise adjacent to the entrance. Books were stacked in piles, some open and others shut.

  E’Malkai sat far from the entrance. His dark hair fell over his face as he ran his hands over the books. “Most of this is written in a Culouth dialect, but some of it I cannot understand––an older derivative of its written language perhaps. There is much here that you may not be aware of,” called E’Malkai without looking up.

  Mihen carried a large stack of books, turning at the youth’s words and lifting an eyebrow in question. “Let me sit down, my boy, and I will have myself a listen.”

  E’Malkai nodded and continued to run his fingers over the text. His blue eyes followed the words as he mumbled to himself. “Most of it reads as riddles and prophecies, but there is much written about the coming of the Ai’mun’hereun.”

  Mihen chuckled and sat down next to the youth. “That much I already know. Even though I could not read these particular texts, it was obvious that they were written in a before-time when riddles were a very common way of talking about an uncertain future, or an unknown past.”

  The youth shook his head. “There is something different about this. There are references to Dok’Turmel and the residence of the Ti’ere’yuernen, as well the birthplace of the power of the Original Creator. They speak of the coming of the Ai’mun’hereun, ascending during the Final War. That he will walk through the darkness of Dok’Turmel and….”

  Mihen was enraptured now.

  He leaned forward as the youth hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  E’Malkai shook his head, his furrowed brow darkening. “I can’t be sure. It talks about the rebirth of the Original Creator in the coming centuries, or perhaps that it would take centuries for the vessel of the Original Creator to absorb the essence of the universe. I honestly cannot be certain. There is a variation in the sentence structure, an aberration of which I do not have a firm grasp. I wish Elcites was here, he could read it.”

  Mihen raised an eyebrow as he leaned back.

  “Was he your instructor?”

  E’Malkai shook his head. Closing the book, a cloud of dust exploded from its pages. “No, he was my guardian and I was his sien. He was an Umordoc.”

  Mihen tightened.

  “You had an Umordoc as a guardian?”

  “He was my friend as well. The Umordoc of Culouth are not as they are here in the tundra. Many of them are more intelligent than humans. Bakar serves on the Council of Six. The mindless killers of the north are a product of this environment, a vestige of their tribal ways.”

  The tension lessened, but remained in place as Mihen shifted his posture. “Tell me of this place, Culouth, before we continue with the translations.”

  E’Malkai sighed and placed his hands behind his head. Leaning back in the chair, he balanced one foot against the table. “Where to begin? What is that you would like to know?”

  “Is it a large place?” offered Mihen with a gesture of his hand.

  E’Malkai chuckled.

  “In terms of its physical area or population?”

  “Both.”

  “Culouth spans several miles in length. There are several million people living within, and several million more in outposts on the Lower Plane––the land south of the northern marker.”

  Mihen was awestruck, his mouth hung open.

  “Millions?”

  E’Malkai nodded. “There is war there now, millions could die. There are so many who believe I am this hero, this champion of the Light. Yet, I do not know where to begin to look for this power.”

  Mihen seemed distracted and picked up the text, opening i
t in front of E’Malkai. “What else does the text speak of?”

  E’Malkai pulled the book onto his lap and ran his finger over the words. “It says that within the breadth of the Texts of Remembrance the true history of man, and their escape from their home planet, is catalogued.”

  “Home planet? Terra is our planet. Is it a portent, a prophecy?”

  The shake of his head dissuaded the old scientist. “This is a construction of a past, of one that took place millennia ago, but it is not clear. It constantly refers to the Texts of Remembrance.”

  “I have never heard of such books. Does it say where they are housed?”

  “It speaks of it being in the Bringer of Worlds, the Pathway of the Ancients: a vessel or ship that carried beings across space. Once again, whoever wrote this is not really divulging specifics. There are just archaic references.”

  Mihen laced his hands through one another. “We need the texts it speaks of. I believe that the Final War of lore is upon us. I have never heard of such armies battling one another. It must be the end of days.”

  E’Malkai’s face brightened. “It may not speak of the location of the texts themselves, but it does reference a location on what they call a road of sky glass. This is where this vessel should still be.”

  “Where?” pressured Mihen.

  He was lost in thought now, the revelations maddening.

  The youth’s fingers scanned over the text, and then tapped the book as he stopped. “In the coldest reaches of this world there is an ancient place built of machines and metal, and within its walls the texts of a world lost and reborn are housed.”

  Mihen looked at the youth, perplexed.

  E’Malkai put the book down and closed it. “The Temple of the Ancients. Arile spoke of it as we traversed the Maiden. That is where these books lead us.”

  Mihen pushed himself up from the table and shook head.

  Pacing away from the youth, he spoke. “You are wrong, that is a dark and terrible place. It consumed your grandfather and almost took your father’s life as well. You must have interpreted it incorrectly.”

  “I didn’t. It makes sense in a way. If that place is as modern as I believe, then it had to have been erected before the Fallen. Perhaps that is why the Re’klu’hereun faded. The knowledge they guarded was the key to all of this,” reassured E’Malkai as he placed his hands on the table.

  Mihen shook his head.

  He did not believe.

  “What else is there?”

  E’Malkai stared at him for a moment, and then sat back once more with a deflated sigh. “There is quite a bit about Dok’Turmel and the passing of the Original Power. Something about an offering of family. That is a literal translation. I can’t be entirely certain of the context. The wording jumps around from passage to passage, but it talks about the sacrifice of family, of origin.”

  Mihen nodded absently and motioned for him to continue.

  “There is more. It speaks of the dissolution of the tundra people during the Final War: the people of the tundra may remain within the womb of their birth and wither, or burn brightly until they are extinguished.”

  Mihen watched the youth. “Dire indeed.”

  E’Malkai shut the book as he had before and leaned back, his hand gripping his chin. “There is a lot here, prophecies and rituals laid down ages ago. All of it points toward the Temple of the Ancients. If this is my journey, then that is a step toward my destination. Whatever answers I seek about my father, or this being that so many believe me to be, are in that place.”

  The door opened to the library.

  Mete and Arivene stood next to each other in the opening of the door. A dark green dress covered the girl from the curve of her pearly shoulder to the slip of her ankle. Her usual smile was gone, replaced with a grim line. Mete stood as he always did, arms crossed over his chest. Leather armor was drawn tight against his chest; a dark black sheath held the bulk of his planedge.

  “My Ai’mun’hereun,” he boomed with a curt nod.

  E’Malkai frowned despite Arivene’s presence.

  “Do not call me that, Mete.”

  Arivene stepped forward. The swirl of her dress dusted the floor. “You cannot deny what you have become. You are the Ai’mun’hereun reborn. Your power has been foretold.”

  E’Malkai moved to say something, but Mihen touched his chest. Nodding to him, the youth waved him away. “What brings the two of you here?”

  Mete stepped past his sister, the coils of his arms hung at his sides. “Lord Higald seeks the council of the Ai’mun’hereun. The fate of the Fallen is at your feet.”

  E’Malkai brushed aside Mihen and shot him a frustrated glare.

  “What has happened that requires my immediate attention?”

  Arivene moved toward him and bowed slightly. “The entrance to the Fallen has been broken beyond repair. Soon the cold will freeze the caverns.”

  “The Umordoc,” replied E’Malkai.

  “Indeed, my Ai’mun’hereun. Everyone has been assembled. They await your presence. We believe that you will lead us to a better place. We have waited for the coming of the Believer for some time.”

  *

  The assemblage of the Fallen was silent. Their brooding leader stood beside Bione. His thinner body seemed like a child next to the bear of man who was their chieftain. People stood unfazed, unblinking, as E’Malkai walked alongside the bleached stone walls of the common house.

  Arile stood against the corner, obscured by darkness.

  Mete and Arivene walked behind him.

  Mihen was the last to reach the common house.

  Higald spread his hands wide as E’Malkai reached him.

  “The Ai’mun’hereun,” he boomed. Closing the circle of his arms, he sat into a flat-backed seat behind him, motioning for E’Malkai to do the same.

  E’Malkai nodded and cast a sideways glance to the assembled Fallen. Their collective stare unnerved the youth more than he cared to show. “I would ask that you refer to me only as E’Malkai until things are sorted out.”

  Higald smiled with a tilt of his head. “As you wish, though you have been called here because you have the Sight. There are things that have been set in motion that cannot be undone. The Fallen and her people are upon a precipice.”

  E’Malkai wished to scream that it was not his problem, not his burden. But had he not come to the tundra, the Umordoc would not have torn the entrance to pieces. Whether or not he was the man they wished him to be, he had brought this tragedy down upon them. He was now responsible for their well-being despite their belief.

  “What is it that you would ask of me, Higald?”

  Higald rose from his seat and turned in a circle.

  His eyes focused on the floor in thought. “Our home has been destroyed. Your presence here now speaks of what will come next. It is indeed time for us to move beyond the boundaries of our forbearers. We must follow the path you lay out before us.”

  E’Malkai recalled the text, the words written about the tundra tribes and their place in the Final War. It rung hauntingly familiar. “You would ask that I lead you to your holy land as if I were a prophet who carried the standard of the old and new?”

  Higald nodded.

  E’Malkai paced toward Higald. “If I agree to do this, you will do as I say? You will ask no questions?”

  Higald hesitated. The undertone of the youth’s words hung in the air like a viscous substance. “We will do as you say. You are our guide.”

  E’Malkai closed his eyes, already regretting the words he had not spoken. He stared out upon the gathered Fallen. Their apathetic stares were focused upon him.

  “Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters of the Fallen heed my words, for I speak them only once. For the spirit of the Fallen to survive, you must journey south. I have foreseen only death for you here in the north.”

  There was a loud outburst.

  The words were mumbled, but the sentiment was not lost on E’Malkai. There were many who s
till believed that the marker dividing the tundra from the Lower Plane was the entrance to the underworld. To speak such heresy would cause commotion no matter who spoke it.

  E’Malkai turned to Higald, not bothering to hide his dissatisfaction at the reaction. “This is what I was afraid of: you would fear where destiny would take you,” he called to the stunned chieftain.

  The words of the youth and the reaction of his people weighed on him. “The south is a death march, my Ai’mun’hereun,” breathed Arivene. She moved close to E’Malkai, wrapping her slender arms around his.

  E’Malkai looked at her pleading, desperate eyes.

  “This is the only way.”

  E’Malkai’s eyes shifted to Arile’s leaning, shadowed figure.

  Their eyes met and he flicked his head, motioning for him to come forward. Arile pushed himself from the wall, spear still held in hand, and approached the youth as the room erupted in whispers and angry voices.

  “Trouble in paradise?” chided Arile as he nodded to the girl.

  Her scolding eyes surveyed him as he stood without care. She thrust her arms out from her sides and pushed her face toward his. Her brown eyes were ablaze at his insolence. “Who are you to speak to the Original Creator with such mockery? He is a being worthy of respect and devotion. You would do well to remember that, speaker of beast tongues.”

  Arile jabbed a finger at her and looked to E’Malkai.

  “There is a lot of fire in this one.” He turned back to her, his smile a shield against her anger. Looking to E’Malkai, he continued. “What is it that you wanted?”

  Higald moved through the masses.

  The deep coals of his eyes seemed to ease them one by one. He turned back to the youth from within the crowd. It was truly a statement of his placement: a leader among his people.

  “In a moment, Arile.”

  E’Malkai lifted his hands above his head.