by Paul Yoder
“What of the blood and the symbology? Do I need to perform the same ritual?” Denloth quizzed.
“Not…necessarily. Once an offering has been made through a rift gate, the connection remains until the gate is destroyed; but this,” he said pointing to the blood drawings, “helps my focus, strengthens my call to the Planes of Ash. If you can activate a rift without the token, then it is not necessary. I simply enjoy offering supplication to our lord.”
Denloth considered his words, clearing his mind as he began to draw up all information he had researched on the Planes of Ash, having fresh insight on its landscape only moments ago to aid his concentration.
Sha’oul had barely made his way around to his understudy when the rift lit up, the gateway to the Planes of Ash engulfing the stone’s surface, the rods’ glow and hum doubling in an instant.
Though Denloth’s eyes were closed, deep in concentration, Sha’oul watched as the herds of wendigos, mogroths, egladava, and all other manner of fetid creatures roaming the ash fields all looked in unison at the rift’s window. There was something not right, he knew.
“Denloth,” he whispered, but his student was smiling now, feeling his way easily through the rift’s aethereal mechanics, his robes beginning to flutter as if a light breeze played about him, though there was no airflow within the temple deep where they stood.
Rods close by began to glow, and the two slates next to Telenth’s rift began to open, slowly at first, but once their faint images graced the slate surface, it lit, fully open; one showing what Sha’oul knew to be the Planes of Rot, the dominion of Jezelethizal, and another of the Hellflow, Zullenseer’s domain, both one of seven lords of the Deep Hells.
“Denloth,” Sha’oul called, beginning to worry as he saw the horrid hellspawn in all three realms now looking directly at them, all with a look of starving beasts viewing prey.
The rift behind them blinked awake, a realm a swirl in blue aether-like ribbons and banners came into view, a place which he suspected belonged to the god Hassome, Sha’oul noticing that Denloth was not only activating the Deep Hells rifts, but the High Thrones as well.
Three more activated in a blink, and all rods pitched into a scream-like noise, all now glowing a blazing white. A gaseous light ripped from Denloth’s closed eyes, the energy shaking the man slightly as he hovered in concentration.
“Denloth! End it now!” Sha’oul yelled over the howling rods, seeing that each of the portals were quickly overtaking the stones they were bound by.
All at once, the stones returned to their solid state, the rifts cutting off abruptly, though the rods were still rattling at their tips.
Denloth collapsed, and to avoid the horrendous cacophony within the room, and from absorbing any stray rift aether, Sha’oul quickly gathered up the robed man and fled to the Sun Room, its blinding light shining out into the great hall as though a sun had just been activated within its small confines.
The wendigo had fled all the way to the entrance of the great hall’s archway, and Sha’oul didn’t blame it as he gathered the thoughtless skeletons and retreated from the inner depths of the temple, hoping that Denloth had not done irreversible damage to not just their lord’s rift, but to their standing in Telenth’s eyes for intruding in domains where they did not belong.
2
The Call of Blood
The sun bore down on his exposed skin, flaying him wickedly, his hands and face blistering and sizzling open as he trudged ever closer to a clump of vegetation in the sparse desert.
He was past the pain by now. His former master’s voice had come back strong, and once in his mind space, refused to leave, forcing him south—always south.
He could not refuse the urge to comply. He could barely focus on a single thought, or take in information of where he was at, what he was doing, or what he saw before him. All perception was tainted by his master’s visions, and all of his mind was flayed open, exposed and raw before Telenth’s proddings.
Every attempt to think hurt more than anything he had experienced in his previous life before Telenth’s influence—and it felt like another lifetime ago that he had been the one others called Nomad, and even more so when he had been known as Hiro.
He could do nothing but comply with the endless stream of commands fed to him directly into the creases of his mind.
“South. Go south.”
He collapsed under a thick sage bush, the small patch of shade along the dirt cooling his skin slightly, shielding his broken and pocked skin from the scorching sun.
He had expected punishment and resistance from his master for the disobedient diversion, but instead, the voices calmed, allowing him precious moments in the dirt of reprieve from the killing sun, allowing the day to grow long as he fell into a fitful slumber.
He awoke, not to the barren desert that he had hazily remembered, but to a place that seemed more real to him recently than any other faded memory of a place.
His first breath was one filled with ash, particles as fine as dust assaulting his raw lungs, causing him to cough and gag as he worked at opening his eyes in the stinging, acidic environment.
Blinking through the tears, his throat and lungs numb now after long bouts of coughing, he got up on a knee, looking out through squinted eyes to see that he was on a vista of a slick sponge-like mound overlooking a vast expanse of ash, vein-like vines weaving across the endless plane through it, plumes of spores spouting out small mouths in patches of horrid fauna scattered through the terrain.
He remembered this place, from what was left of his memory. It was a hell he had languished in for eternities past. The smell, the taste, the pain….
“What do you want with me?” he croaked out, tormented beyond his ability to maintain his composure.
He was exhausted, and not just physically so. What fatigued him more than the ache of muscle, his sustenance deprived belly, and weakness of blood, was a weariness of mind. His thoughts had been robbed from him, for how long, he didn’t know anymore. All memory seemed in a distant place, and all pathways which constructed his ability to think independently, seemed broken up, or perhaps better put, redirected. His thoughts were no longer his to think, and the only clear memory he now had was swathed in blood red, pain, and ash.
“Sha’oul,” a million voices hissed, the sharp word slicing into his mind like endless needles slowly sinking into his exposed brain.
His ears were ringing, his vision ripping apart, and every inch of his skin felt like the mantra of Sha’oul was nipping at him, persistently gnawing deeper and deeper into his flesh.
“Find him,” the voices whispered. “Follow the call of blood.”
Each word assaulted him, driving him insane. Each syllable sending itching barbs of pain into his mind, only to rip it out afterwards.
“I will go! I will find—” he shouted in desperation—sobbing. He drew a ragged breath, vomiting out the name of the one he was tasked to find, “–Sha’oul!”
There was no answer from the omnipresent voice, no note of approval for his compliance, only ash. Ash that continued to eat away at him inside and out.
He collapsed into the knee-high ash drift.
Eyes watched him from afar. Tris had kept her distance from the crazed man. Though Naldurn had ordered her to trail Nomad, she had also seen the bright red mark across her face where the man had slapped her, and Tris knew that if the man was quick or cunning enough to catch Naldurn off guard, then he was more than likely to give her a terrible time if she got sloppy.
The man was resting, fitfully, but he had remained still on the ground for close to an hour—mumbling unintelligibly in his broken slumber.
He was on the ground one moment, and the next, he was standing.
The movement startled Tris, not just because it was sudden, but that it was impossibly abrupt. It was as though she herself was the one dreaming now, watching the man stand at an odd angle, his posture crooked as he slowly adjusted his head, looking over the dunes and towards the crags at
their borders that lay miles out.
He bolted, running with a new purpose, sprinting so fast in the sandy terrain that after a few minutes of trying to keep up with him, Tris slowed and then stopped, looking out at the man atop a dune peak, marking the direction he was headed.
“Dolinger Crags it is then,” she huffed, watching for a while longer before checking the low hanging sun, determining the time it’d take her to make her way back to the highway.
She’d be setting up camp on the edge of the dunes tonight. But on the morrow, she’d make her way back to her Shadow Company. Naldurn wouldn’t be pleased to learn of Nomad getting away from her, but they now had a good heading of the direction the man was headed.
She hoped her report would be enough to please Naldurn. It would have to be, because she was not going to hunt that man alone in a desolate canyon.
3
Regroup Post Victory
It was far past dark when Metus trotted back through the bloody gates, corpses piled high on either side. He was completely spent from the day’s madness.
Hathos spotted his sultan’s entrance and alerted Bannon immediately, still working with the rest of his troops to count their dead, tend to their injured, as well as oversee the prisoners of war they had captured.
Bannon rushed up to the sultan’s dolinger, helping to guide it by its reins to a more secluded yard, considering it best to talk with the sultan in private, not sure how his leader was managing that night after the fissures in composure he had witnessed earlier.
Helping him down from his mount, Bannon asked in a soft voice, “How do you fare, Sultan?”
Metus stared off, taking a long moment to gather his words, the shock of the brutal war still catching up to him.
“Gather the leadership. I need to speak with them. Just…give me a few minutes to consider an agenda.”
“As you wish, my sultan,” Bannon answered, bowing before trotting off to find Hathos, Undine, Tau, and Naldurn.
The troops were busy, and amidst the bustle of all the tasks that needed doing, it took Bannon some time to find each company leader, delegating what urgent tasks that still needed to be done to their lieutenants.
Gathering them in the backyard of a small, adobe house, Bannon went and retrieved Metus, the two entering the small yard together, Metus ordering everyone to be at ease, each taking a seat along the low wall or taking one of the few rickety back-porch chairs that lined the house.
Metus looked up from the unlit firepit, eyeing each officer there before starting.
“Though we won the battle, it is but a technicality. We have lost many soldiers, and if there was anything I could have done differently these past few days to have avoided these many deaths, I beg your forgiveness for not having the foresight to have done it.”
The officers shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to interrupt Metus’ apology, but each knowing that he was not to blame for the death of their troops.
“What are our casualties? Where do we stand?” he continued.
Hathos took the question.
“We’re still searching for missing bodies, but most companies have a preliminary headcount. These numbers may change into the night as we possibly find wanderers, and…if the injured take a turn for the worse.
“Undine, with Blood Company, reports eight dead, twelve injured, with five of those gravely injured. Tau, with Shield Company, reports sixteen dead, seven injured, with four of those gravely injured. And Naldurn, standing in for Kissa for Shadow Company, reports six dead, and three injured.”
Metus pinched the bridge of his nose, tiredness or remorse clouding his features as the numbers sunk in before replying, “That’s thirty dead as of now, is it not?”
“That is correct, Sultan,” answered Bannon.
“Twenty-two injured?” Metus guessed.
“Yes,” Bannon once again confirmed.
“Then that only leaves us with forty-five, not including us here, Kissa, Tris, and Eilan, all three of which are away on other tasks,” Metus concluded, mumbling, “That’s just over half of the Hyperium, either dead or injured.”
The rest remained silent until Metus questioned, “Other reports—what is each company occupied with currently?”
Hathos and Bannon looked to each of the three company centurions.
Undine answered first.
“The Blood Company is handling the prisoners. There are sixty-two Rochatan soldiers in all that surrendered. There are not many injured. We’re trained to deliver sure blows. Those that are gravely wounded, we’re bringing to their people to take care of as we don’t have any medics or supplies to spare.”
“Let us know if you need any help from any other companies with handling those prisoners. They’re not armed, but they still outnumber all of us combined, let alone your company,” Bannon offered, Undine nodding his understanding.
Tau spoke up next.
“Shield Company has had the most casualties. We’re doing what we can in searching for survivors. It’s a large battlefield. We moved what bodies we could from the gateway. It was filled with corpses. We’ll need it clear when we ride out, and moving bodies is a task best done sooner than later.
“We’re also retrieving what dolingers we can while outside the walls. Many were slaughtered, most probably ran off. There’s a corral in town we’re penning them in. There’s a good two dozen in there now. We’re finding horses too. Not sure yet how many the troops have snagged. I was helping organize that when I got called here. We’ll need mounts if we plan on making it out of this region in a timely manner.”
“Good thinking, Tau,” Metus agreed, everyone then looking to Naldurn.
“We searched for Darious’ hiding spot. We’ve located him and told him to have his people stay underground until notified. I figure the sight might be a bit much for them to take. We’ll need to move them before the sun hits these bodies though. The smell will be hard for the townsfolk to handle, I’m sure.
“We also have word that Henarus is awake. His priest had something to do with that. He did what he could for the prophet and is now with others in my company, tending to the wounded. Our medics are stretched thin, though, and so are our supplies, half of which are on some missing dolinger apparently.”
“Very well,” Metus nodded. “You’ve all performed your duties tonight with honor. Bannon, Hathos, make sure to provide what direction and support you can to each of our companies.”
Bannon was quick to answer.
“It will be done, Sultan.”
“Now as for what’s next,” Metus began. “I have made a promise to Darious and his people. I mean to keep that promise. We will have the people here gather what they can carry, find as many horses as we can gather, and escort them back to the Plainstate. We will settle them in Barre and have our physicians do what they can for their leprosy.”
This will take logistics and orchestration. For that reason I’m going to lead them back myself, and I will take with me any Hyperium that are too bad off to continue. We will be dividing our company on the morrow.”
Bannon’s eyes furrowed considering Metus’ plan.
“It’s not that I don’t understand the need to see to our wounded, or to see that Darious’ people are well handled, but frankly, where does that leave those who are not returning?”
“Perhaps I approached this poorly. Let me explain myself,” Metus sighed, looking to each of his leaders that stood by him faithfully. “I forced myself upon this company, against your and Leith’s advisement. I selfishly headed up this operation, even though there are far more experienced and capable minds to head a mission as important as this. I see now, my inability to command in the field may have cost lives. If this mission is to ever have a chance at succeeding, I need to remove myself from the lead, and perform the duties I perform best, which are back in Sheaf, providing aid and support as you and the others do what you do best.”
Bannon considered Metus’ line of reasoning, neither he nor the other officers having
a response to Metus’ argument.
“I can lead the injured back, and handle the refugees, but we still have an arisen problem on our hands, and Reza and all the others are still in grave danger. If they are found, and word of this battle finds its way back to the judges, it is doubtful they will be granted anything other than a swift execution. They will need to be extracted from Rochata-Ung, and together you will need to see what can be done about the arisen army.
“It is clear that we will have no help from Tarigannie, Brigganden, or any other nation. You are to assess if a targeted attack is even an option at this point, then return or send for reinforcements. I can have our army at the border, ready for your word. We’ll just have to hope that Rochata-Ung does not interfere with us trying to defend their lands for them,” Metus said, harshness entering his voice at his last thought.
“I see,” Bannon said, chin in hand, considering his leader’s intentions. “Mind if I ask you some particulars?” Bannon probed, not sure how ready Metus was to level and reason with them on the details.
“Please,” he responded, Bannon seeing clearly that Metus wanted nothing but honest advice from his council.
“So you will be taking all gravely injured Hyperium? So you will have no other able-bodied help within our company to assist you in taking care of the injured? Excluding Darious’ people of course. You would not want to risk infection to our troops. Can you see to a host of refugees and some twenty-odd wounded soldiers on your own?”
Metus was silent for a moment, sorting through the described image in his head before asking, “Who do you suggest come with me? I will not take more than a few from what able-bodied Hyperium we have left. They will need all the numbers they can.”
“I will come back with you,” Bannon answered easily.
“You’re needed here with the rest of the Hyperium,” Metus reasoned.