by Luke Tarzian
So where now? What now? It was late and much of the city was asleep. Surely there was somewhere she could go and collect her thoughts and come up with a plan of action. She spied a tower in the distance—the Bastion, home of the Ariathan queen. Perfect. She started north and had not gone far before she heard the clank of armored footsteps closing in from all directions.
“Hey, girl! Over here!”
In the shadow of two buildings stood a figure. Not eager for a meeting with the Faithbringers undoubtedly coming to arrest or cut her down—the latter was highly probable considering the gift the phantaxians had sent back less than a week ago—she darted toward the figure and followed them at a sprint into the darkness of the side street. When they were well enough away, they stopped for a breather and the figure conjured a wisp of light.
“A phantaxian in Helveden,” he said. He looked to be in his mid-years, face stubbled and scarred, graying blond hair pulled back behind his ears. “Been a while since I seen your kind hereabouts.” His eyes were hypnotically silver and Serece found herself having a hard time focusing on anything but. “Y’okay, girl?”
Serece blinked. “I…yes, thanks.”
“Name’s Fenrin,” he said.
“Serece.”
“Dangerous for you to be walkin’ around so out of place,” Fenrin said. “Especially now. Though I’m guessin’ ‘now’ is what’s brought you all the way here.”
Serece eyed Fenrin. “I…suppose? What do you know about ‘now’?”
“Little,” Fenrin said, looking past her shoulder. “But enough to know that things ain’t what they seem if you catch my drift.”
“I think so,” Serece said. “If you mean to say Te Mirkvahíl is alive.”
Fenrin tapped his nose and winked. “Indeed. Common knowledge among my kind, as was your appearance this night. Foretold.”
Aunt Fiel had said something vaguely similar. “So, now what?”
Fenrin grinned wolfishly. “Follow me.”
Serece crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “Where?”
“Somewhere safe,” said Fenrin, offering his hand. “I promise. I’ve no reason to maim or cut you down, you see?” Serece hesitated and Fenrin sighed. “Does it help to know your aunt Fiel and I were the best of friends at one point in our lives? She was a great help to me and my people, the drenarians.”
“I’ve never heard of the drenarians,” Serece said.
“Children of Dren to others,” Fenrin said.
Serece tilted her head. “Dren? The winged man?”
“Indeed,” Fenrin confirmed. “You know him?”
“Saw him,” Serece said. “In a memory not my own. Is he your god? Your creator?” Fenrin nodded and Serece found herself a bit more at ease. If Fenrin was of Dren’s making, she supposed he meant her no harm. She took his hand. “Lead the way.”
* * *
“My Flesh, you’ve not said word these last few hours,” Faro whispered
Theailys ignored the voice, instead focusing on the copse looming in the distance, on the golden grass of the meadow, radiant in the early morning light. Going on four days removed from their time in the Phantaxis Mountains they were on schedule to arrive in Naldunar a day or two early, which was a great relief to Theailys as it meant they would return to Helveden that much quicker. His thoughts drifted once more to Searyn. It was impossible not to think of her, especially not after the conversation he’d had with Cailean the previous night.
“My Flesh?” Faro tried again. “Can you hear me?”
Unfortunately, Theailys replied.
“Your thoughts are loud,” Faro said. “You ache for your sister’s safety, for an inkling as to what’s transpired in your absence.”
Can you blame me? Theailys thought.
“No,” Faro said, and there seemed to be genuine sympathy in his tone. “Not with miscreants like General Khoren in charge of policing the city. Do you know his ancestors were very much the same? Zealous, phobic individuals obsessed with maintaining the purity of home.”
That doesn’t surprise me, Theailys thought. Khoren’s never been one to adhere to the tenets of Khar Am. Hell, it seems like hardly any of the Faithbringers do these days.
“Orders are easily corrupted when power falls to individuals like Khoren,” Faro hissed. “I’ve little doubt he framed her—his motives for doing so are myriad. A dissident trying to quell news of the gift the phantaxians sent? Why, it would depict your sister in the darkest light, as a demon traitor to the crown.”
It made sense, and it was no secret General Khoren saw Searyn’s promotion to Second General as a slight against his person. There was little, if anything Theailys could do, but he found a modicum of hope knowing Searyn held favor with the queen. That had to count for something.
“Smell the salt in the air, my Flesh,” said Faro, manifesting on Theailys’ shoulder as a white-eyed bird. “Have you ever sailed the sea?”
Once, Theailys thought. To Thaleorn.
Faro clucked approvingly, settling in for what Theailys guessed to be a nap.
“If you look hard enough,” Cailean called from behind, “you can see Tal beyond the trees.”
“Ever been?” Theailys asked, slowing his shaghound to ride in step beside Cailean and Leyandra.
Cailean grinned. “Several times. Had a couple of wild nights with the innkeepers’ twins.”
“What is it with you and the innkeepers’ children?” Leyandra sighed. “Every fuckin’ city or town…”
Cailean shrugged, grin persisting. “If you keep an animal locked away that long…well, the beast is bound to come out at some point.” He chuckled, and it faded to a reminiscent sigh. “Good times. Simpler times.”
“Times best kept to yourself,” Leyandra said, jabbing him in the back. “Sometimes I wonder why I decided to follow you on this journey of yours.”
Theailys scratched his nose. “Why did you?”
“You can only bartend for so long before the old itch creeps back in,” Leyandra said. “I suppose…I suppose it’s unfinished business. The need to prove to myself I’m not useless without illum. My time in Harbanan showed me I wasn’t, but sometimes, when the world around you starts goin’ to shit and people you love go with it, it’s hard to remember.” Her gaze fell east, past Theailys’ shoulder and he could see the sea reflected in her eyes. “I want the darkness to end, if not for me then for everyone else.”
“Well said,” Cailean murmured, giving her a pat on the knee.
They passed silently into the trees.
“They are noble,” Faro offered, rousing from his brief sleep. “Tragically so. The death they have known, the things they must have seen…” He shuddered. “How terrible.”
Theailys nodded. How terrible indeed.
* * *
Serece had not slept since arriving in Helveden. Fenrin had given her much to chew on over the last day, though she was a little unsure as to whether or not the information was pertinent to her undertaking. The winged god Dren was dead and had been for centuries; he had gone mad shortly after his creation of the drenarians. More interesting was how he’d come to be. He was what Fenrin referred to as a temporal paradox, a figure coexisting with another version of himself in the same timeline.
“Doing so has severe consequences,” Fenrin had said. “I saw Dren’s memories shortly before he went mad. He meant to rewrite history, to prevent Te Mirkvahíl’s conception.”
But some things were written in stone. She stood atop the Bastion, gazing out over Helveden like the bird she sometimes wished she was. Temporal paradox. The phrase still sounded ludicrous. How did one go about traversing time, rewriting history? Serece tried her best not to focus on the mechanics lest her mind decide to implode out of confusion. Instead she ran through what she had learned in the last several days, her focus drifting to the physical similarities between Faro Fatego and Theailys An. Was time the culprit there? Serece’s gut told her there was a connection whether or not it was momentarily obvious.
> She scratched an itch under her jaw, flakes of dried skin falling away. Her time away from the Phantaxis Mountains was already starting to take its toll. Just focus. Truth from madness. Temporal paradoxes, the possibility of history repeating… She furrowed her brow. Who was to say these current events hadn’t already played out? It was a maddening thought, but the world itself was growing madder by the day.
She closed her eyes, the darkness welcome, soothing. What if… Her brewing theory made her shiver. What if Theailys An is older than he appears? What if Faro Fatego wasn’t actually human? What if they were one and the same? What if Faro Fatego was a temporal paradox? The possibilities made Serece feel colder than she already did. Like Te Mirkvahíl’s conception, some things were written in stone. She just prayed Theailys An going mad wasn’t one such thing.
“Surprisingly easy to get up here,” Fenrin said, causing Serece to start. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Don’t worry,” Serece said, “I’ve scared myself just fine.” She conveyed her thoughts, Fenrin nodding all the while.
“Interestin’,” he offered when she was done. “But there’s a flaw in the logic, that bein’ Faro Fatego was actually human. Still…” He stroked his chin. “Perhaps existin’ as a paradox does somethin’ to the body, alters the genetic makeup, you see? Then it might be conceivable your Theailys An and Faro Fatego are twins of a sort.”
“Have you learned anything more of Te Mirkvahíl?” Serece asked. “If the Demon Prime still lives, where is it lurking?”
“I’ve got a hunch,” Fenrin said. “Saw…somethin’ in an illum dream. But we’ll ‘ave to wait ’til night so as to not get nicked by the false Faithbringers.” He nodded north. “Somewhere there. We’ll ‘ave a sleep, then see what secrets the dark reveals.”
* * *
Night.
Stars blooming through…smoke?
Theailys sniffed. Fresh smoke. The orange glow against the sides of buildings said as much. And were those screams? Distant at first, then grating, like a knife on glass.
Fuck. Theailys sat up, looking about. Where am I? What the hell happened?
He swallowed, his throat dry, itching like Perdition. It was sore, as if he had screamed himself hoarse; his breath came raggedly. He swallowed a second time, realizing his hands were slick with… Not blood. Something black and oily, membrane-like. And around him were myriad bodies, the flesh rotting from their bones. The odor of decay manifested like a storm. Theailys retched to the side, not sure if the sudden urge had been triggered by the smell or sight of the corpses.
He pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly before he found his balance. His clothing, too, was stained with the black substance. He pressed himself to remember but his mind was foggy. The last thing he recalled was emerging from the trees before Tal just after dusk.
And an argument with Faro.
Fuck. Should have smoked more; he’d been lenient the last couple days what with Faro having…what was the proper phrase? Reined himself in? He supposed it didn’t matter right now.
And where were Leyandra and Cailean?
Theailys started through the ruin of wherever he was, visibility hampered considerably by the flames and smoke. He clenched his jaw as the screams continued, doing his best to push them away. His efforts, though, were fruitless.
“Cailean? Leyandra?”
Theailys continued blindly. His foot caught and he tumbled forward, yelping, wrist and chin smacking the cobblestones. He groaned, spitting blood; thankfully his teeth were still intact. He rubbed his wrist and looked behind to see what had obstructed his path.
A body, but there was something different about this one—it was fresh. Flesh and garb were torn, the belly was ripped open, the arms and legs were splayed wildly, streaked with blood and the same oily black substance Theailys’ hands were slicked with.
He shivered. Had he done this?
Theailys stood and backed away. He turned and broke into a run, unsure of where he was going, the screaming growing louder all the while. But where was it coming from? He stumbled through the massacre of missing limbs and faceless skulls; of severed torsos with their entrails trailing sadly.
Finally, through the smoke, he discerned the outline of a fountain and a church—
Voices.
“Cailean?” Theailys called. “Leyandra?”
A burst of luminescence set the smoke ablaze and turned the black-gray mass to warming light. It dispersed as quickly as it’d come, and from the smoke emerged Leyandra, Cailean a few seconds after.
“Thank the Keepers,” Cailean said. “Been searching Tal for hours. Why’d you run off like that?”
“Didn’t necessarily have a choice,” Theailys said, mentally cursing Faro. That explained some of the bodies and the mild amnesia. The rest of this, though? “What happened here?”
“Lokyns,” Leyandra said darkly, brow furrowed. “Hell of a lot by the look of things.”
“Sometime before we arrived,” Cailean said, sword gripped tightly in his good hand. “All dead this side of Tal so far as we can tell. Town near two-thousand at its peak… Bastards must’ve gotten off right hard with this one.” He paused, alert to something moving in the smoke: metal clanking on stone, the sound of cloth flapping.
Five figures stepped forth: a Warden, two Faithbringers, and two Illumurgists by the look of things, the latter wielding illum staves that hummed and radiated warmth.
“I am Marshal Iel Nor,” the first figure said. She was dark-haired with a pair of scars running beneath her left eye. “This is Warden Neyma and Faithbringer Brehm.”
She gestured to a young woman with dark red hair and golden eyes, then to a sandy-haired older man who looked strikingly similar to Cailean. If there was any relation between the two men, neither acknowledged it, though their quick glances and narrowed eyes suggested they knew each other.
“We are Ronomar and Raelza,” the pale-skinned Illumurgist twins announced in unison. Theailys had studied with them at the Hall years ago. “If it pleases you then call us Dual.”
“Who are you three? What are you doing here in Tal?” the marshal inquired.
“Could ask you the same thing,” Cailean said hotly.
“We’re traveling to Naldunar,” Theailys said, and he relayed their names.
“Catil,” Marshal Nor mused, looking at Cailean. “Knew you looked familiar.” She looked to Theailys. “The Seraph is expecting you in Naldunar. Once we’ve finished here, we’ll escort you to the city.”
“Great,” Cailean said, “but what are you doing here?”
“We’ve been on patrol for the better part of a week,” Marshal Nor said. “With reports of lokyn activity in from Ulm, Helveden, and the towns and villages neighboring Naldunar, the Seraph deemed our action necessary. Our company strafes the Gray Meadows even now. We broke away when we saw the smoke rising from Tal just a couple of miles out.” She looked from Cailean to the church. “You’re aware of the reliquary Tal houses, yes?”
Cailean nodded. “Of course.”
“Reliquary?” Theailys asked. The notion of such a thing had never come up in his previous visits to the slaughtered town.
“Nothing more you need to know,” the marshal said, starting toward the church, her companions at her heels. “But if you feel like being useful you are more than welcome to help us inspect the interior. We’re to collect the reliquary and return it to Naldunar for safe keeping.”
They followed the newcomers. A sense of dread wound through Theailys as they neared the church, the screams persisting. They stepped inside, Theailys and Dual conjuring illum wisps that bathed the room in pale blue luminescence and revealed the blood-smeared walls and faceless dead, the latter garbed in white and scarlet robes denoting them as Naldunarian priests.
Theailys clutched his ears, crying out as the shrieking in his head grew louder. “Keepers, I can hear them,” he uttered, half to himself, half to the others. “The dead. I can hear their spirits shrieking in my he
ad.”
Marshal Nor gave him an odd look. “Then we had best procure our quarry and retreat. Be on your guard.”
They continued through the nave and chancel, passing through a pair of heavy oaken doors beyond which stood the rear of the church. At length they halted at an argentium door inlaid with glyphs. Marshal Nor placed her right hand on the surface of the door, beads of illum dripping from the fingertips of her gauntlet and into the narrow grooves of the glyphs, drawn from the pendants around her neck. There was a tiny burst of light and the door swung inward with a groan, revealing a small chamber. In the center, on a pedestal, sat the reliquary: a simple black box, about four feet in length.
The church shook. Not violently, but enough to make Theailys’ teeth rattle. It was over almost as quickly as it had started.
The screams, Theailys thought. They’re almost silent. He could still hear them, though they were little more than whispers, than the wind tickling his ear. “What was that?”
“A mass ascension.” Marshal Nor drew her blade. “Hopefully.”
“Hopefully? You don’t sound too confident,” Cailean said, his own blade clutched tightly in his right hand.
“Best not to be,” the marshal said.
She took a deep breath as Dual began to channel. She extended the long, hungry blade in a slicing motion, and a spear of white illum javelined from the chamber and down the hallway. It made no audible impact as it pierced a cloud of mirkúr forming in the nave.
Cackling echoed through the church, and before Theailys had a chance to blink the faceless priests were rushing toward them, strengthened by the mirkúr of their phantom puppeteer. Brehm, Nor, and Cailean lunged, their blades taking the dead priests with ease, severing them at the waist. The halves flopped pathetically as blood and black fluid sprayed the walls and floor.
More came; Theailys hadn’t realized how many there were. Their numbers seemed endless, as was their dark resolve. Legless torsos clawed their way up the sullied hall, snarling, hissing, cackling as they swiped feebly at their prey.