by Luke Tarzian
This is a work of fiction All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are products of the author’s imagination.
VULTURES
Copyright © 2019 by Luke Tarzian
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used, edited, transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s consent.
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0998720579
Covert Art by Luke Tarzian
Cover Design by Luke Tarzian
luketarzian.com
Contents
1. Corpses
2. Ire
3. Wretch
4. Exile
5. Presage
6. Yssa
7. Whispers
8. Witness
9. Masks
10. Judgment
11. Dream
12. Haunted
13. Atrocities
14. Vultures
15. Sorrow
16. Premonition
GLOSSARY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT
To mom.
Who believed in me before I believed in myself
I miss you
1
Corpses
The Month of Jul, Mid Year 1169
Theailys An retched and the odor was almost as foul as that of the mangled corpse a few feet from where he knelt. A fantastic way to ring in his thirtieth year, to be sure. His younger self would have been surprised, horrified by the headless torso and the limbs strewn across the grass, by the gossamer threads of shadow leaking from the wounds—but that was then. Blackouts and mutilated bodies had become commonplace these last few years and it was hard to find shock in something so perversely routine.
Ignoring the carnage, Theailys stood and started through the moonlit trees. This has got to stop, he thought, though he knew the words held little weight. The breathing exercises his mother had taught him as a child did little to quell the murderous voice in his head, and his medication was as useful as a torch in rain. Had Theailys’ victims been human he was sure the Faithbringers would have locked him up ages ago. Keepers, sometimes he wished the corpses had been, if only to validate his guilt.
He arrived at Helveden’s southern periphery gate. A cold sweat rose from his pores. Nearly two dozen corpses lay strewn across the road; blood stained the cobbles black in the dark of night. Theailys had never before seen this many after a blackout. He had never seen human bodies after a blackout.
What did you do? he hissed inwardly.
The voice in his head giggled, manifesting as a spindly white-eyed silhouette. It’d taken to calling itself Faro, a once common name made infamous four centuries prior by the wartime slaughter and treason of Faro Fatego. History told he too had seen shadows, had whispered to the voices in his head. Taking that into consideration it was an aptly appropriated name.
Answer me, Theailys growled as they walked in step.
“You—demon!”
Armored footsteps clanked his way. Theailys blinked, then found himself swarmed by half a dozen Faithbringers, collared by the tips of their crystalline longswords as Faro paced circles around them; the Faithbringers could not see him. Their blades were slick with blood and their white half-plate bore signs of conflict. Theailys sucked in a ragged breath, then exhaled.
“Did you call the lokyns here?” growled the lead Faithbringer.
“No.” Theailys stole a glance at Faro, who had taken to licking the Faithbringer’s cheeks. He took another breath to compose himself. “What reason would I have for doing so?”
“You tell me,” the Faithbringer said. His face twitched and Faro snickered. “The enemy are your ancient brethren.”
“Aren’t you an astute one?” Theailys crossed his arms. “Yes, my people are a lokyn sect, but we are no more the enemy than you are.” Then, stepping forward so the sword tip touched his throat and drew a dot of blood: “Recall it was the mirkúr-wielding human Faro Fatego whom the enemy tasked to lead its brood, to whom our city nearly fell.”
The Faithbringer snarled. Theailys had touched a nerve, though not one tender enough to provoke assault, not that the Faithbringers actually had grounds, nor were they dense enough to severely maim the only man who could finally bring an end to the new lokyn war. The Faithbringer sheathed his dragon’s tooth of a blade, the others following his lead, then grabbed Theailys by the collar of his robes and shoved him toward the gate.
Theailys crossed the threshold, the southern farmlands stretching out before him, vast and gold, the late-night air imbued with an amalgamation of wet grass, rot, and death. As his blackouts had become commonplace so too had this perfume. It would remain as such so long as the lokyns ran amok.
“You could reap the demon scum.. Keep their essence for your own,” Faro said. “The power of those blackened souls and the mirkúr they possess—”
No, Theailys thought. Keepers only know what I do when you take control, but I refuse to reap while I’m awake, not until I have to at least. Not until I’m standing at the Heart of Mirkúr with The Keepers’ Wrath in hand.
Faro snickered. “Oh, my Flesh…”—Theailys hated the byname—“You amuse me so! You truly expect your little power focus to imbue you with the strength to reap the barrier that yet surrounds the Heart!”
Considering the recreation of The Keepers’ Wrath has been my life these past five years, yes, I do, Theailys thought as they continued on. Pray tell, what do you find amusing about that?
“History,” the white-eyed shadow said. “I sometimes read while you’re asleep.”
Better than maiming, Theailys thought.
“Debatable.” Faro grinned at Theailys. “My amusement though, dear Flesh, is in the irony of you taking up the very weapon Faro Fatego used to nearly bring your country to its knees.”
The irony of this had not been lost on Theailys. In fact, it had nearly caused him to abandon the endeavor completely on several occasions. As far as Theailys was concerned the end of this war couldn’t come soon enough. With any luck, soon enough was perhaps three weeks away, four at the most.
He held his hand out to Faro. The grinning shadow took it gleefully and the two were made one as they entered Helveden proper, abuzz with the apprehensive merriment evoked by wartime fear and drink. Here the farmland stench dissolved, replaced by horse shit, piss, and bile. Theailys yawned, continuing up the oak-lined promenade, heading northeast toward the Hall of Illumurgists and sleep. He had gone perhaps half a mile when he heard his name.
A pale man in black Hall robes approached from the west. He carried a slip of parchment. “Mistress Khal and Queen Ahnil require your immediate presence at the Bastion,” he said, fingering the hour-old timestamp. “The, um…requisitions team has, um…returned.”
Theailys raised an eyebrow. He’d not been expecting them for another week. He yanked the summons from the man and scanned it hastily, groaning. The requisitions team had returned, indeed—as body parts in silken sacks.
* * *
The queen’s council sat sequestered in the Bastion’s war room. They’d convened an hour prior to Theailys’ arrival, but his tardiness was the least of their concerns.
“This is bad, to put it mildly,” Mistress Khal said. The Master Illumurgist sat parallel to Theailys, brow furrowed. “If word gets out about this people will call for blood and the generals may very well oblige them.”
“At which point we’ll have grossly smeared our covenant with the phantaxians,” Theailys said. “The…remains they sent us were a sign, a simple warning to respect the laws laid out o
n either side, not a declaration of war.”
“Yes, but do you really think a people festering in fear will see it like that?” Khal asked.
“Of course not,” Theailys scoffed. “Our country is historically, barbarically rash. Any non-human is a perceivable threat. The phantaxians were forcefully exiled from the enclaves because of a plague unique unto their race and the dissident are routinely beaten and hung. Just yesterday a child was found strung up in the western farmlands. A child!”
Theailys stood to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Regardless—” He heaved a sigh. “Regardless, this business sets completion of The Keepers’ Wrath even further behind schedule than it already was.”
“You have a thought, then, brother?” asked Searyn, Theailys’ twin sister and Faithbringer general.
Theailys offered the room a reluctant nod. “The conception of this weapon was my doing; I’m the only one who can wield it. I’ll fulfill the requisitions myself. Time is of the essence and we can ill afford offending the phantaxians again. I hold favor with their king; that should help to some degree.” He paused. “If my queen and council approve, of course.”
They did, unanimously.
“I’ll need three weeks, four at the most depending on how smoothly things go,” Theailys said to Searyn. Round trip, it was about a three-week undertaking, but it was necessary to have a bit of a cushion considering the state of things. “Will your forces be able to hold ground near the Heart?”
“It’s doable, though the quicker you are, the better. Our numbers are stretched thin as of late,” she admitted, grimacing. “Te Mirkvahíl is dead by my own blade, which makes things a bit easier, but recent reports suggest the rate at which the Heart of Mirkúr is spawning lokyns has increased tenfold.”
“These are substantiated by the frequency with which they slaughter villages in the west,” Queen Ahnil said. “Not to mention the prevalence of their attempts to breach our walls.”
“Understood. I’ll make preparations to depart in two days’ time.” Theailys rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. “If there is nothing else…”
The queen obliged him with a nod. “You are free to retire.”
Theailys touched his right hand to his left shoulder in the formal salute and withdrew.
Footsteps trailed behind him, soft against the stone floor. “Feeling all right, brother?”
Theailys slowed to walk in step with Searyn. “Relatively speaking. It was only one corpse this time.”
“A good day then.” Searyn pushed a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “You aren’t tired.”
“No.” There was no point in lying, Searyn could read him like a book. “Just distracted. Three years to the day. Three years since…” Theailys tensed his jaw. Even after all this time he still had difficulty saying his wife’s name. Part of it was grief, but most of it was guilt. He swallowed the lump in his throat and allowed a ragged sigh to escape his lips.
Searyn offered a sad smiled and squeezed his arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” Theailys said. “If I do it’ll be impossible for me to focus. But…”
Searyn raised an eyebrow. “But…?”
“Sometimes I think myself a fool to have embarked on such an undertaking,” Theailys said. “History has not been kind where The Keepers’ Wrath is concerned. Have you heard of Anasharon Anor?” Searyn shook her head. “She was Faro Fatego’s wife, and in his quest to forge this weapon he accidentally reaped her soul, same as I did to Anayela.”
“Perdition,” Searyn murmured. “That’s awful.”
“War is awful,” Theailys said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But you know that more than most…” The question sat on the tip of his tongue. In all the months since Searyn had returned there was one thing they’d yet to speak at length about. “What was it like running your blade through that monster?”
“Awful,” Searyn said. She offered nothing more and Theailys knew better than to press, especially at such a thing as this. “Are you heading off to sleep?”
“Not yet,” Theailys said. “The burial grounds.”
“I’ll take my leave.” Searyn kissed him on the cheek. “Try not to linger longer than you need.”
“Hmm.”
Presently Theailys withdrew into the cold night, starting south for the burial mounds. They were swathed in thick mist by the time he arrived, analogous of the pressure in his chest. Privy to this parallel, Faro roused from slumber with a shriek. Theailys offered nothing in response. The past three years had numbed him to the sound.
“Mmm. Fun,” Faro hissed as he took shape to Theailys’ right. “Smells like fun here with the dead, my Flesh. Have you come to kiss your Anayela’s corpse?”
Theailys rubbed his thumb against his index finger. A wisp of illum bloomed to light his way along the path. Faro snarled as they continued on. His abhorrence for Theailys’ use of illum, minimal as it was these days, was perhaps as strong as Helveden’s fear of Theailys’ ability to wield mirkúr. The power of betrayers and demons, the people said. The weapon of Te Mirkvahíl.
A face from nightmare memory flashed across Theailys’ mind. He clenched his teeth. Maybe they were right. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“You see, Flesh? Light makes you weak. You could be stronger if you snuffed it out, silenced it like night does the sun.” Faro grabbed Theailys’ hand. “Let me show you. Let me help you feel while you’re awake.”
Theailys yanked his hand out of the shadow’s grasp. Not. Here. Keepers, anywhere but here! He refused to let this darkness take control where corpses slept. Where Anayela’s body lay at rest. He’d already let the mirkúr take her soul—the best he could do now was to keep it from tasting her dead flesh.
“Are you sure? Not just this once?” Faro pled, stroking Theailys’ face and arms. “I could ease your suffering with just a thread, a string of smoke to make her rise—”
Stop. Theailys’ fingertips were cold; the mirkúr was aroused.
“—and you could hold her in your arms, my Flesh.”
Theailys gnashed his teeth together as the world spun into obscurity. Please!
“Dance beneath the starlight like you used to do.
Before you reaped her soul.”
* * *
A raven landed on the branch of an oak tree. It bore no leaves and its bark was the color of old ash. Theailys held his arm out and the raven came to him. It cocked its head, its beady eyes unmoving.
“Varésh,” Theailys said, acknowledging the creature by its name. He stroked its head, the feathers soft, if not a bit oily. “The world sits in your eyes.”
The raven’s eyes fluctuated cyclically from black to white.
“The darkness and the light,” Theailys said. “You have seen it all.”
Varésh squawked.
Theailys chuckled. “Why fly so far? What do you hope to find?”
Varésh clucked, flapping his wings.
Theailys sighed. “If you must. What do you make of dreams, old friend?”
Varésh hopped along Theailys’ arm until he rested on his shoulder. He snapped his beak at a measured pace.
Theailys nodded. “I see. Is this always so? Is there always an ounce of truth to things we dream or is this simply your opinion, bird?”
Varésh clucked, taking flight. He landed on a tree branch, then bird and branch erupted into flames. Theailys simply stared. He took a seat in the grass and watched the oak tree turn to ash. From the ruin arose a slender silhouette. Theailys eyed the faceless shape, unmoving as he too caught fire and burned to ash, his remnants scattering in the wind.
* * *
Starlight twinkled into being. Theailys jolted upward from the dirt, a scream caught in his throat, subdued only by his need to gulp the wet air. He trembled as the silhouette persisted in his thoughts, leering with her eyeless stare, taunting wordlessly just as she had done every week for the past three years. A monument to Theailys’ failure.
; He retched—a near certainty after a blackout—then scanned the area for remains. Keepers only knew what Faro had made him do. He saw nothing, but his heart thumped wildly when he realized Anayela’s burial mound stood several feet from where he knelt. He pushed himself to his feet, knees knocking together, and approached. His stomach dropped, and urine dripped down his legs.
Mirkúr tendrils clung to shards of broken earth. Where once his wife had lain was now a vacant tomb.
Anayela’s corpse was gone.
2
Ire
Serece yanked her crystalline blade from the lokyn’s forehead with a grinding squelch. The demon’s essence turned to ash and scattered in the wind, leaving behind the rotted remains of whomever it’d possessed. Disgusting things, these parasitic shadows. Absolute abominations of nature.
She pressed east, distant shrieks muffled by her hood. She hoped they belonged to lokyns falling prey to phantaxian blades, but the demons were so horrifically adept at mimicking voices it was sometimes hard to tell. A sound in the darkness of the pine trees ahead slowed her pace. She advanced in a crouch, fingers dancing on the hilt of her dagger.
“Serece.”
Serece kept on, eyes narrowed, heart thumping. The voice sounded like Sharya.
“Temper Yssa,” Serece recited, grip tightening.
“Don’t let it harness you,” Sharya replied.
Serece took a deep breath.
Then launched a crystalline throwing knife in the direction of the voice. The unseen impact drew a guttural wheeze. When after several seconds no retaliation came, Serece entered the trees to collect her knife.
She looked at the naked corpse, at the blade hilt-deep in the black, rotted skull. It was a lesser demon; the others didn’t fall so easily. She yanked the weapon free and spat.
“Sharya doesn’t speak using contractions, víthurstyg.”
Serece continued on her way, the night now still and quiet. Her ears twitched occasionally as they always did when she was anxious. She arrived at the village square whereupon she found Sharya and her adoptive sisters, Sorin and Taür, gathering the newly dead.