Oblivion's Grasp

by Eric T Knight

  A moment later the shoots attached to them pulsed and the bodies stirred. One by one they stood upright, faces slack, eyes vacant. They stumbled to the gate and began to open it.

  Tarnin stared at the mighty gate, willing it to open. He was vaguely aware of the white-clad Tenders, of the Arc of Humans, standing off to one side, a low hum of power coming from them. Part of him wondered what they were doing, thought it might be important, but most of him simply wanted to make the traitors pay. His rage was increasing by the second. He wanted to see every one of the traitors die and die painfully. He realized that he was making a growling sound but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to tear them limb from limb. If he could have he would have climbed the gate and flung himself down into their midst, sword flying.

  The gate swung open and Tarnin sprinted toward it, an inarticulate roar of rage coming from his throat. Like a single-minded, enraged beast, the rest of the Takare surged forward as well, howls of bloodlust coming from thousands of throats.

  They poured into Ankha del’Ath in a flood and found the rebel Takare waiting for them, standing in a group, every man, woman and child who lived in the homeland. There were only a few thousand of them, and most were either very young or very old. None of them held weapons.

  Genjinn stood at their head. As Tarnin and the rest charged at him, he stood calmly, his hands at his sides. “We will not fight you!” he yelled. “We are your kin!”

  Tarnin’s first blow nearly cut him in half. There was a madness on him, on all of them. He swung his weapon wildly, hacking children, old women, everyone he came across without holding back or slowing down. He hated them. Hated them more than he had ever hated anything in his life. All that mattered was killing them, chopping them into pieces.

  In only a few minutes it was done.

  The dead and dying covered the ground. The Takare warriors stood there uncertainly, staring at each other’s blood-spattered faces, eyes dull with shock.

  Outside the gate, the FirstMother gestured and the white-clad Tenders released their power. It flickered and subsided.

  “It is done,” the FirstMother said, her face lit with fierce, savage joy. The Tenders’ only real threat had been destroyed this day. Now the Empire would belong to them. The Takare had turned on their own. All they’d needed had been a little nudge to push them over the edge and her Tenders had provided that, turning anger to rage, and rage to homicidal fury. It had been a risk. Had the Legate suspected at all he would have attacked and she and her women would have been slaughtered.

  But it had worked.

  “Time to leave,” she said.

  The horses were already saddled. Bolstered by Song fed to them by their riders, they could run faster and further than any horse ridden by the Takare, should the Takare decide to pursue them. But she didn’t think they would. She had broken them this day. They would never recover from this.

  She had only just mounted when a vision came to her, hitting her so hard she almost fell off the horse and had to cling to the saddle like a child. It was a collection of images sent by Vetla, the Tender she had left in charge in Kaetria, and she knew the woman had sent it with her dying breath.

  She watched through Vetla’s eyes as the barrier of pure Song protecting the city of Kaetria, the barrier the Tenders had erected, collapsed suddenly. With the barrier gone, the Guardians charged into the city, slaying people in the hundreds and thousands. She watched, helplessly, as Tharn charged into the Emperor’s elite troops, scattering them like match sticks. The Emperor died screaming, smashed by Tharn’s huge fists.

  Kasai and Gulagh attacked the Tender temple together. The huge brass doors fell and they entered. Tenders died by the score, their Song attacks bouncing off the Guardians harmlessly.

  Refugees fled screaming from the city. The streets ran red with blood.

  Kaetria had fallen. The capital of the Empire was destroyed and with it most of the Tenders. The last image she received was of a huge sandstorm, bigger than anything she’d ever imagined, roaring in from the sandy wastes, dunes forming in the streets, already swallowing the city.

  Kirtet made his way through the carnage to Tarnin. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

  Tarnin had no words. He realized his hands were shaking and he sought to control them, to hide them from the others.

  “What have we done?” someone cried out.

  “They had no weapons,” another said.

  That was when Taka-slin spoke up. The legendary warrior had climbed up onto stairs cut into the mountainside, stairs that led up onto Wreckers Gate. “We have destroyed ourselves,” he said, his voice cracking. “On this day we have betrayed everything we stood for, everything we held dear. We have killed defenseless people. We have killed our own people.”

  There were anguished cries from the warriors. Tarnin heard Kirtet yell, “They were traitors. They deserved what they got.” A few voices answered him, but most of the gathered Takare said nothing. Their eyes were on Taka-slin.

  Taka-slin threw his sword down. It clattered on the cobblestones with a loud noise. “Never again,” he said. “From this moment forth, I will never raise a weapon against another person.”

  A hush greeted his words. Then came the sound of another sword hitting the ground. More followed in rapid succession, until most of the warriors had followed him.

  “You’re all fools!” Kirtet yelled, climbing up beside Taka-slin. “We are the Takare. We are the true rulers of the Empire. This isn’t our fault. It was the Tenders. We were tricked.”

  “No,” Taka-slin said, crossing his arms. “Never again.”

  Kirtet drew his sword and held it to Taka-slin’s throat, but the man did not move. “Kill me,” Taka-slin said simply. “It will make no difference.”

  Others who had thrown their weapons down also crossed their arms and stood resolute. Kirtet looked them over, then at Tarnin. He saw no help there. Tarnin’s face was white.

  As if Kirtet wasn’t there, Taka-slin climbed down off the stairs. “This is no longer my home,” he said. “I will go into exile.” He walked into the crowd, which parted before him, and passed through the gate. Most of the Takare followed him silently.

  In a few minutes only Tarnin, Kirtet and a few score Takare remained. Tarnin yelled after them. “It is you who have failed our people! We are the true Takare! Heed my words. No one who stands here will again be born to your people. We defy you until you are once again true Takare!”

  Thirty-three

  Rekus pulled his hands away and the vision ended. Shakre was bent over, her arms over her stomach, trying not to cry. She felt absolutely sick to her stomach.

  “The Tenders caused the massacre,” she whispered. Though she’d been exiled by the Tenders and had lived away from other Tenders for almost twenty years, she still had always thought of herself as one. “I knew that we did terrible things during the Empire, but I never dreamed of anything like this. How could we have done this?”

  Elihu put his arm around her. “Your order only amplified the rage that those warriors already felt. Had we not lost ourselves as well, the massacre would never have happened.”

  Shakre sat there for a long minute, shaking, then she got a hold of herself and wiped the tears away. “What’s done is done. It was a long time ago. We have enough to worry about now.”

  “You see now why the knowledge of our betrayal of the ronhym was kept hidden,” Rekus said. “It was to protect them from us. If we could do it once, we could do it again.”

  “Yet it did no good, because the spirit-kin remember,” Elihu replied.

  “Do you think the ronhym will help us?” Shakre asked.

  “Would you?” Elihu responded. “If armed soldiers came to your door, representatives of a people who had already shown themselves to be without honor, would you help them?”

  “I would keep my door locked and run.”

  “The question we should be asking is how will the spirit-kin react when the r
onhym refuse to help?” Elihu asked.

  Shakre winced. “It’s going to happen again. Only this time it will be worse. We have to warn the ronhym.”

  “How?” Elihu asked. “We don’t know where the entrance to their domain lies.”

  “Rekus, do you know?” Shakre asked.

  “It will take some time, but I may be able to walk the past and find the memory we need.”

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know. Much of the night probably.”

  “That’s not going to work, then. The spirit-kin aren’t wasting any time. Even if we get ahead of them by a few hours, they’ll catch up to us tomorrow,” Shakre said.

  “Then we will just have to make sure we are near when they enter the deep ways,” Elihu said. “We may still find a chance to warn the ronhym.”

  “Maybe they will agree to help us. Maybe we can convince them that Gulagh poses a threat to them.”

  “But does the Guardian really? It may not even be aware of them. Helping us may only expose them to it.”

  “We should get back to camp,” Shakre said, “before any of the spirit-kin notice we are gone.”

  Thirty-four

  Quyloc stood there, panting, as the echoes of falling rock died away and the dust began to settle.

  “I thought you weren’t going to make it,” Rome said, putting his hand on Quyloc’s shoulder.

  Quyloc wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “If we’re lucky, she’s trapped forever.”

  “I don’t think we’re that lucky. She’s too strong. She’ll get out.” As if in response to Quyloc’s words, the pile of rubble settled somewhat and a handful of small stones slid down the side.

  Rome, looking at it, just shook his head. He slid the black axe back into its sheath. “Tairus is still back there,” he said. Quyloc shot him a questioning look. “He threw his axe, hit her right in the back. Right when she was about to do that web thing she does.”

  Quyloc went still. Holding the spear in both hands, he closed his eyes and seemed to be listening. A moment later he opened them. “He’s still alive. So is the big guy. We better send someone around to the north gate to let them in.”

  “That’s great,” Rome said, feeling a small smile on his face. Suddenly the day didn’t seem quite as bleak. “I should have known the little runt is too tough to die.”

  “This isn’t going to hold them for long,” Quyloc said.

  “No. I don’t guess it will.” The grayness closed back in. He scrubbed his face with his hand. He wanted to ask Quyloc how long he thought they could hold out behind the palace wall, but he kept it to himself. He knew he wouldn’t like the answer. “I guess we better help with the evacuation.” Some soldiers nearby were holding horses for them and he and Quyloc walked over and mounted.

  Once on his horse, Rome looked down at his men. There were a couple hundred of them in the street, most of them men who’d been in the square. Their officers had them lined up, awaiting orders. Every one of them was looking at Rome and it seemed to him that every one of them had the same sick expression on his face. Rome suddenly wondered if any of the surviving pikemen would follow Tairus back into the city. Why should they? If he was in their place, he’d run. Better to die in the open than trapped like rats behind the palace wall.

  “Spread out!” Rome yelled. “Hit every street and sweep back toward the palace. Get everyone you can. Carry them if you have to. I want sentries posted all around the edge of the square with horns. When the first of the Children shows his face, blow the horns. When you hear the horns, head for the palace at once.”

  Then Rome clapped his heels to his horse and rode off down a side street. He could feel their eyes on him as he rode and it hurt. They’d stayed to fight because of him. He’d led them to believe that there was hope. He’d led them to believe they could put up the good fight. Yet here they were, less than a day since the Children arrived, already falling back to their last line of defense. What good would it do any of them? Would the palace wall hold any longer than the city wall did? Maybe he should have ordered them all to flee, to run as fast and as far as they could.

  He rode along, lost in self-recriminations for a while, and when he looked up, he realized he was outside the Grinning Pig tavern. He got down off his horse, tied it, and went inside. He was not surprised to see Gelbert inside, standing behind the bar, wiping glasses with a rag. An open, half-empty bottle stood beside him. A half dozen of the regulars were there as well, all of them drinking hard.

  “Bereth’s tail, man,” Rome growled, walking up to the bar. “Are you deaf and stupid? Didn’t you hear the order to retreat to the palace? What are you still doing here?”

  “Aye, I heard,” Gelbert replied. He poured some liquor out of the bottle into a glass and set it before Rome. “On the house.”

  Rome tossed back the drink and set the glass down. “They’re coming. If you don’t get out now, you’re dead.” He turned to the rest of the room. “You’re all dead.”

  “We all die someday,” Gelbert said, taking a drink directly from the bottle.

  “But it doesn’t have to be today.”

  “This is my tavern. I’m not leaving.”

  “You’re a damn fool.”

  Gelbert looked up for the first time. He had watery eyes that were pale blue, something Rome had never noticed before. “I’m staying.” He didn’t sound afraid. He didn’t sound desperate. He sounded like man who had reached a decision and Rome knew nothing he said or did would dissuade him.

  “When they get here, they’ll drain you. Every person they drain makes them stronger. If we’re going to hold them off…”

  Gelbert reached under the bar and took out a small, stoppered bottle, filled with a yellow fluid. “Once you leave, I’m barring the door. No one gets in or out.” He paused and looked over the men in the room. They met his eye, but none said anything. “When they get here, one drop of this in each cup and one last drink for each man.”

  Rome looked at him, then at the rest of the men. He saw the same look on every face. “Okay,” he said simply. He held up his glass. “One more?”

  Gelbert poured and Rome drank. From habit, Rome reached for his coin purse, but Gelbert waved him off. “Won’t need them where I’m going.”

  “Gelbert giving away free drinks?” Rome said, attempting a smile. “Now I know it’s the end of the world.”

  “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  Rome strode to the door and left without looking back.

  Thirty-five

  When the pikemen, led by Shorn, broke through to freedom, Karrl chased them for only a little way before realizing that a far greater prize lay behind him, at which point he broke off and headed back for the square. Linde, his wife, turned back when he did and followed him. Once in the square, he looked around. The stone buildings ringing the square looked solid, formidable. He didn’t need to try the iron doors sealing them to know he wasn’t strong enough to break through. His gaze swung to the two collapsed buildings and the huge pile of rubble they had formed. That was the way through.

  He walked to the bottom of the pile of rubble and began to climb up it, ignoring Linde, who begged him to help her. The rock was loose and twice he slid back down, but he didn’t give up. The third time he made it, while Linde cursed him and threw small stones at him. By then other Children had begun to climb the rubble as well.

  Karrl got to the top and saw the sentry waiting down at the bottom on the far side. The sentry bolted, blowing his horn as he went, and Karrl chased after him heedlessly. He lost his balance almost immediately and slid down the pile, triggering a small landslide as he did so. He ended up at the bottom with a fairly large piece of stone lying partially across him. He pushed it off and stood up. The sentry was too far away for him to catch, but he could smell other people nearby.

  Following the scent, he ran into an alley, rounded several corners, then emerged onto a narrow street. A couple blocks away was
a group of a dozen people. They were carrying bundles of possessions on their backs and one man was pulling a small cart with an old woman sitting in it. With a cry of hunger, Karrl gave chase.

  They looked over their shoulders, saw Karrl, dropped their bundles and took off running. The man pulling the cart called for help, but none turned back to help him. He pulled as fast as he could, but Karrl caught up to the cart easily. As he drew near the old woman spat at him, then took her shoe off and threw it at him. It hit him in the forehead. When he grabbed her ankle she stabbed him in the neck with a long knife she had hidden in her dress. Karrl screamed. It hurt, but his hunger was stronger than the pain and he didn’t let go of her ankle.

  Moments later she was dead and he was chasing new prey.

  Behind him, more and more Children made it over the pile of rubble and into the city. Every street leading up to the palace had people in it. Some were burdened by possessions they refused to leave behind. Others were old or infirm and simply couldn’t move fast enough. The soldiers did what they could, but it wasn’t enough. Soon screams echoed down every street and what had been a fairly orderly evacuation became a stampede.

  There were also those people still in their homes. Some were too sick or too old to flee. Some hid in fear, praying that the scourge would pass them by.

  And, with each person they drained, the Children grew stronger, faster.

  Quyloc stood on top of the palace wall, watching. The gates were open, citizens streaming through them onto the palace grounds. Three squads of pikemen were arranged outside the gates, ordered to hold the way open as long as possible. Soldiers waited by the gates, ready to slam them closed at his order. Stone masons stood with teams of horses by the large stack of cut stones recently piled just inside the gates. Pulleys had been set up, anchored to the wall. As soon as the gates were closed, they would go into action.