“No Bayorn, you can’t! You’re going to get killed!” Letho pleaded.
Bayorn snarled, and light flashed through his eyes. It was the first time Letho had ever seen his friend truly angry. “You will do as I say!” Bayorn shouted.
Letho glowered at the floor, tears flooding his eyes. He kept his head down so that no one could see.
“Well, guess we better hit it then,” Zedock said. “Bayorn, it’s been a real pleasure. If you happen to come out of this with your head intact, give my regards to the Elder. I’ll do the same for you.”
The two leaders clasped arms, and stood silent. After a moment they let go, and went to lead their charges into an uncertain future.
Everyone, Tarsi and Eursan alike, looked terrified. There was no bravado, no puffed-out chests or sneers of contempt for the enemy. Only fear.
“Come, brothers. For the Elder!” Bayorn shouted.
In the rush of adrenaline and the chaos of movement Bayorn didn’t notice that Letho did not follow.
THIRTEEN - Hidden, Now Revealed
“Ah, at last we meet face to face,” Alastor said.
“Mendraga,” the Elder hissed, “I thought your kind long extinct.”
“Almost, old dog, almost. Our race is not so easy to exterminate.”
“And the corrupt one, Abraxas? Has he returned as well?”
“That is none of your concern, Elder. Or should I call you by your true name?”
“You do not know it,” the Elder said, his eyes betraying a hint of fear.
“Fintran the Oracle. The last of the pure bloodline, the greatest of all the Elders.”
The Elder flinched. He hadn’t heard his name outside of his own mind for centuries.
“Then it is true. He has returned,” Fintran the Elder said, his features—worn and cut by the whittling knife of time—becoming sallow, tired.
“He has always been there, biding his time.”
“The creature you serve is a fell beast, an abhorrence,” Fintran spat.
“How dare you speak of Abraxas in such a manner? Even in his current state he has more power than you will ever know.”
“Enough of this talk. I grow weary of speaking to the lap dog of such a base creature. Do what you came to do, thou filth. I am ready.”
“Fool. You think I have come to kill you?”
“I care not for your motives. They are meaningless, fool’s errands,” the Elder said.
Alastor snarled. “I shall have what I want. I have won the day. You and your friends are all going to die.”
“I shed this mortal skin not in vain. You will see,” Fintran said.
Fintran the Elder bowed his head, his arms outstretched. Inside his mind he reached out across the sea of time that he had traversed, seeing back through the generations that had sired him, watching as each generation of Tarsi before him came and went. He saw his planet Tarsus as though he flew over the burning horizon. He saw the first Elder as he embraced his father one last time before he stepped onto the Fulcrum station and to his fate.
The young one, his father, and all of Fintran’s forefathers turned to him.
“Your work is done, Fintran. It is time to come home,” they said.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Bayorn led the Tarsi down a flight of stairs to the bottom of the building. A metal ladder, surrounded by a metal cage large enough to accommodate a Tarsi, led down to another landing a few meters below, where a dark tunnel began.
Bayorn went first, followed by Zedock. The group of Tarsi and inspectors followed, and they gathered at the bottom of the tunnel where a barred steel door closed off access to the tunnel. Bayorn placed his hand against a large panel near the door, and after a series of beeps, the magnetic locks snapped open and the door slid up into a recess in the doorframe.
“Are you sure about this, Bayorn? The Elder said my place was at your side,” Maka pleaded.
“Yes, Maka. This is the only way,” Bayorn replied.
“Very well,” Maka replied. “This way!”
Maka, Zedock, and a squad of the station inspectors went left, following the tunnel in the direction that would lead back to the Tarsi dwellings. Bayorn and his group of Tarsi and inspectors went the other way. From above he could hear the sounds of valiant station inspectors firing at the Jolly Roger in an attempt to suppress it, but to no avail. He heard the ripping belch of the Jolly Roger’s twin cannons, and then the screams.
More dead. Bayorn winced.
They continued through the tunnels until Bayorn was confident they were behind the Jolly Roger. They climbed up another access tunnel, leading them to the basement of a small grocery store. From the ground floor of the grocery they could see the Jolly Roger, and it seemed unaware of their presence.
While they waited, a squadron of inspectors attempted their own flanking maneuver. Zedock and his men, ensconced in a building across the street, opened up with withering fire while the smaller group attempted to rush the metal beast’s left flank—only to be liquidated by its arm-mounted mini-guns.
Bayorn would have very little time to execute his plan. He shuddered to think that men were dying horrible deaths and that he was using them as a diversion, but he took solace in the fact that his plan might save many others. Then there were the Mendraga…
One thing at a time, he thought.
The tremors beneath his feet ramped up to a stomach-churning quake as the Jolly Roger lumbered closer. The Tarsi’s nerves were rattled further as various canned goods and plastic containers were shaken free of the shelves that held them, pelting his hide with convenient, one-stop shopping products.
As the Jolly Roger drew closer, the whir of rotors, the clack of servo motors, and the rumbling of death-dealing engines became deafening. The squad of inspectors that had come with Bayorn charged from the safe confines of the grocery store, firing as they went. They dove behind cover wherever they could find it, continuing their fire on the Jolly Roger. The ruse was working.
Bayorn and his group of Tarsi rushed out of the convenience store as one. The Jolly Roger continued to fire on the inspectors, hammering away at their entrenched positions, grinding their cover to dust. In a stroke of fortune, its sensors did not pick up the Tarsi, even as they were right behind it.
Two of the Tarsi dove forward, wrapping their thick arms around the Jolly Roger’s lower legs. Another two leapt upward, grabbing the metal man’s arms. Off balance, it was carried down by the cannon-ball inertia of the Tarsi.
Bayorn had leapt first, and he was high above the Jolly Roger. As he plummeted from the sky the other Tarsi scrambled away.
The Jolly Roger attempted to right himself, but was slammed back to the ground by Bayorn’s weight. Bayorn grabbed the Jolly Roger around where a man’s neck would be, and stuffed the breaching charges down the ragged hole in its facemask.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
An explosion rocked the town center. Letho looked on in amazement as the Jolly Roger writhed on the ground, its entire frame wreathed in fire. The rumbling purr of its twin cannons erupted once more, and then the metal beast fell silent. And still.
Letho’s attention returned to the Elder and Alastor. They had been talking for quite some time, and for a time neither of them had moved. Letho was much too far way to hear what they were saying, and could only guess at the subject matter based on their rigid stances and facial expressions.
Then the Elder seemed to loosen, his arms falling to his sides, a posture of resignation. Letho heard the Elder’s words in his mind.
Letho, you must do what is right.
He hoped that doing what was right included disobeying Bayorn. His decision was sealed when Alastor dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword.
Letho dashed toward the two, legs pumping like pistons as the ruins of quaint scenery blurred all around him. He stopped a few footsteps behind the Elder, and apprehension finally clawed its way past the brash haze of his young mind.
I have no weapons, he thought. He cursed under hi
s breath.
Letho searched his mind for the ultimate epithet but was cut short as Alastor roared and blurred toward him with alarming speed, his sword an angry tusk pointed at Letho’s chest. The elder bear, who had remained silent and still, straightened to his full height and moved with grace and speed that seemed impossible for his withered frame.
Letho couldn’t move fast enough to stop it from happening. As he recoiled from Alastor’s assault, he watched the Elder move between himself and Alastor with stunning feral quickness.
He would have screamed no! if his mind had the time to react.
Letho heard the bear groan and shudder. Alastor’s grin faded as the sword strike that was meant for Letho sank deep into the Elder’s chest and clear through his body, sticking out the other side.
Alastor’s inertia forced the Elder off his feet, and both of their bodies slammed into Letho. Letho gasped as the tip of Alastor’s sword entered his chest. Then his knees buckled as Alastor’s weight drove both of them down. The heavy but brittle press of the Elder’s body was on Letho, and he felt hot jets of blood issuing from the Tarsi’s wound as well as from his own. Letho’s red blood and the Elder’s golden blood commingled on the ground beneath them, creating a resplendent pool of copper.
In the waning light of his consciousness, Letho could see Alastor looming over them, screaming in some terse, archaic language. Alastor took what looked like some kind of medical vial from a pouch at his waist and began collecting the Elder’s blood. Seemingly satisfied, he cupped his hands and brought them up, splashing the Elder’s blood onto his cruel, lined, marble face, sucking it down, his eyes gleaming like a rodent’s. Behind his teeth, tentacles reeled in ecstasy as the blood coated them.
“Fintran’s knowledge is mine at last,” Alastor exulted. Then he turned to Letho. “And what of this one?” he said to himself.
“Bastard,” Letho coughed, blood bubbling at his lips.
Letho could feel Alastor’s breath on his cheek, a cold wind carrying the stink of carrion. Then there was a sweet, tugging relief as Alastor withdrew his blade. Letho knew his blood was coming out too fast, and there was no one to stanch the flow. When the pain subsided, and just before shock set in, he felt a momentary sense of warmth at the site of his wound, as his blood and the Elder’s mixed.
Letho’s vision began to swirl, and the shadows that loomed under every stoop and outcropping grew larger, darker. He could see Alastor gazing at him, eyes inquisitive, evil. Then he heard Alastor’s footfalls as he left.
“May the prophecy lift you up, my son,” the Tarsi Elder whispered. “I go to be one with all that is and ever was.” His last breath hitched, and then his chest deflated. He was still.
Letho passed away moments after him.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
The wraithlike figures, gathering one last group of frightened Fulcrum citizens, began to retreat into the black hole atop the Envirodome. Full-throated roars erupted from the Tarsi at the fall of the Jolly Roger, and the remaining inspectors were scrambling to join them in celebration. The chief sauntered over to the fallen metal beast and kicked its smoking frame. The Tarsi and the men embraced, shook hands, and regaled one another with tales of great battle exploits.
Then all were silenced by Bayorn’s roar.
“NO!” He shouted, lumbering toward the place where two bodies lay. Alastor lingered not far away, leaning against a lamppost, wiping blood from his blade. He eyed Bayorn for a moment, then sheathed his sword. He offered the anguished Tarsi a single nod. And then he was gone just as quickly as shadows chased away by light.
With utmost care, Bayorn lifted the body of the Elder off of Letho’s body. He laid the broken body of his fallen forefather next to Letho, studying both of them, looking for any sign of life. He laid his great palm on the Elder’s bony chest, and then on Letho’s; he felt no rise and fall, no trace of a heartbeat. He then reached down and closed their eyes with the utmost care and tenderness. Tears streamed from his own eyes, matting fur as they ran down his face.
Behind him, the Jolly Roger lurched. Bayorn cringed, looking for cover, fearing the metal creature’s cannons. Station inspectors began to shout, readying their guns. But the Jolly Roger would not attack again on this day.
Green mist began to spill forth in noxious tendrils. It wrapped the broken frame of the Jolly Roger like the soft hands of a lover, and lifted it into the air. The inspectors watched in awe as the Jolly Roger moved to follow its master into the gaping hole in the Envirodome.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Bayorn studied the fallen Elder. He gazed upon the fine features, the skin that was so thin it was almost translucent. He touched the tufts of fur that clung to the Elder’s snout. He placed a single kiss on the Elder’s forehead.
Here lay the greatest Tarsi Bayorn had ever known—now broken, his consciousness having flown to another place. The Elder had whispered a message to him only moments before he went to meet his fate. The words had come so quickly that Bayorn had struggled to absorb them. Uttered in a pure form of Tarsi that was spoken only between Elders, his words were simple:
You must keep your Kinsha together, Bayorn. Your part is just beginning. The boy has the key. But it is hidden inside. You must protect him until he finds the way.
“Why?” Bayorn asked Letho’s broken body, “Why didn’t you listen to me?”
What of the prophecy? This cannot be.
Bayorn wrapped Letho in his arms, his powerful body shaking with sobs. He stayed in that pose until his joints began to complain and his muscles began to cramp. For some time, the remaining Tarsi watched the smoky gap into which the interlopers had disappeared, fearing that they might mount a second attack. Minutes later, the Centennial Fulcrum shuddered as Alastor’s ship detached, and there was a groan as the outer protective shutters lurched into motion to close around the dome.
It was over.
Station inspectors, Fulcrum citizens and Tarsi gathered around Bayorn as he held the broken Eursan in his arms. Heads were bowed, and some of the leathery faces of the inspectors glistened with tears. Many tried to hide their sorrow behind lowered visors and the self-conscious clearing of throats.
The town center was a smoldering ruin. Buildings had been toppled or chewed to pieces by the Jolly Roger. The team of inspectors, previously numbering in the low hundreds, had been halved. It would take months to rebuild.
The stilted, heart-wrenching chorus of Tarsi anguish filled Bayorn’s ears. Soon, the cries of Eursan voices mingled with the Tarsi’s as they discovered among the shattered buildings the broken bodies of loved ones, station inspectors and civilians alike.
FOURTEEN - Last Rites
The blood ceremony was enacted only on those who had fallen in battle. It was meant to be a gesture of remembrance, but it was also a pact. One who partook of this blood oath swore to right the wrong that had cost the deceased his life.
As was the custom, the new Elder was the first to pay his respects. He took a small knife and made a small slit on his palm, then placed his palm on the old Elder’s chest, right where the sword had pierced him, allowing their blood to mix. He began to vocalize in Tarsi. It was a dirge, sung with exacting pitch and harmony in a timbre that was deep, rich and resonant. Each of the remaining Tarsi, male and female alike, performed the bloodletting and said the words, then handed the ceremonial knife to the next in line.
Bayorn watched the progression of mourners with half-lidded eyes. He had shed many tears today and his eyes burned, longed for sleep. As the Tarsi finished their part in the ceremony they began to gather around Bayorn, saying nothing, watching him, waiting for him to speak. Bayorn searched for the right words to say.
Fintran would have known exactly what to say. He always said just what the Kinsha needed to hear, he thought.
Bayorn was not good at making speeches like the Elder that preceded him. His Kinsha continued to watch and wait, patience in their eyes. At last he spoke.
“Today we have lost many that we loved. We ha
ve lost our leader and great father,” Bayorn said.
He paused, using the moment to plan what he would say next. He found that speaking, like many things, became easier as he continued.
“We lost many Tarsi today. They gave their lives so that others might live. They brought honor to our Kinsha,” Bayorn said.
He tried to continue, but was drowned out by the roars of Tarsi as they celebrated their dead. He gave them a few moments to continue, then raised his hands and lowered them toward the floor. The Tarsi understood the gesture and grew silent. Bayorn turned to face Letho’s body, laid on a pallet among the bodies of the slain Tarsi.
“And there is another. One that came to us from the above. An outsider who learned our ways and spoke Tarsi true. He sacrificed his life to save the Elder, though it could not be so.”
Say it, Bayorn thought. Say that the Elder was wrong.
“The Elder believed that Letho was the figure of the prophecy,” Bayorn said at last. “I… Letho…”
Letho’s hand moved.
Bayorn’s brain, already pushed to the very brink by the day’s events, was clearly misfiring a little, for the hands of dead men did not move.
Bayorn began again. “The Elder believed—”
He froze mid-sentence; this time he was certain he saw the young Eursan’s fingers twitch. Bayorn rushed to Letho’s side, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders.
Blinding white light began to stream from Letho’s eyes, ears, nose and mouth. It began to seep from his very pores, stippling constellations across his forearms and brow. It washed over the entire assemblage in a beautiful explosion. Every crevice, every corner was lit by the small sun that had appeared where Letho’s body had lain. Bayorn was aware that he had been blinded, but he felt no pain or fear.
Fulcrum Page 16