Haliden's Fire

by Chris Sendrowski

  “By the gods!” Haliden breathed. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Willem nodded. “Zelwin’s Prime Inhibitor. I only wish I could bring her with us. We’re going to lose so much in the coming days.”

  Evetner gazed up at the cracked marble statue and shook his head. “It’s ghastly.”

  Willem quietly laughed. “I admit, it is a bit overwhelming. But it will still be a great loss.”

  A warm, acrid wind howled across the square.

  Willem opened his hand as gray flakes drifted into his palm. “It’s almost here, isn’t it?”

  Haliden turned to the south. The black cityscape blocked the horizon, but the air was growing warmer and the ash thicker. “Two… maybe three days out at best.”

  Evetner marched past them. “Enough sentiments then. We still have much to do.”

  Willem paused and took a deep, nervous breath. “I’ve condemned these people to death, haven’t I?”

  Evetner shrugged. “We all die, charger. It’s just how and when that matters, right?”

  Willem reluctantly nodded. “Best not make it here then.”

  For the next call they slipped silently through the ruins, edging eastward toward the city’s center.

  Their route took them past Marigel’s famed museum, where both the mysterious Ultra Pillar and the bronze Chasim Bell resided. The two pieces had been found deep in the Culver Waste, and it was rumored that Marigel’s broker’s nearly bankrupt the treasury purchasing them from the Blind Scavengers.

  An enormous building sat silent on the far side of the square. Stone statues adorned its enormous flat rooftop and two massive stone gargoyles stood sentinel above its sole entranceway.

  “The city’s treasury,” Willem whispered as he knelt down behind a cord of rotting wood.

  “What are we looking for?” Evetner asked as he scanned the shadows.

  “A contingency… put in place when I first arrived.”

  Haliden ducked down beside them. “This is it?”

  Willem nodded. “As long as we tread quietly we should be safe. Come… keep close and touch nothing.”

  The treasury’s interior was pitch black, save for the single moonbeam arching in through the open door behind them.

  Haliden stumbled as Willem led them into the darkness. Hundreds of books lay scattered across the floor, their moldering pages torn and curling.

  “By the gods, what is that stink?” he asked as he covered his mouth.

  “The sewers,” Willem replied. “With no one left to clean them, they’ve flooded many parts of the city. Now be quiet. We’re almost there.”

  After a few hundred footfalls they reached a broken gate. Willem carefully opened it and ignited a small torch he had tucked in his jacket.

  “Where are we going?” Evetner asked as the flames snapped and sputtered to life.

  “The vaults,” Willem said. “There is something here I cannot leave behind.”

  “And what is that?”

  Willem stared down the black stairs. “Just be silent and watch your step.”

  When they reached the bottom, the charger’s torch revealed a room filled with at least a footfall of brown, stinking sewage.

  “So what now?” Haliden asked.

  Willem sighed. “Now we move on.”

  “Through that?” Evetner said. “No way in the hells.”

  Willem turned to him, his eyes reflecting the torch’s dancing flames. “You want my help, boy? You want to leave this place? Then you follow me.”

  The sewage was warm and thick, it’s currents caressing their legs like slippery tentacles. Haliden tried to imagine that he was crossing a pond, rather than a room filled with feces and piss. But whenever he came upon a dead rat or a cluster of maggots squirming atop a rotting brown island of shit, the illusion quickly faded.

  After several hundred footfalls they entered a narrow tunnel. Haliden felt the first pangs of claustrophobia clutching at his chest as they climbed over rotten tables and chairs submerged in the muck.

  “How much further,” he whispered as a startled rat jumped off a table into the rippling sewage.

  Willem raised the torch and pointed at a tunnel branching off to their left. “We’re almost there. Just keep close and touch nothing.”

  Hundreds of books bobbed on the surface of the steaming sludge, many bound in laptane flesh and still partially intact. Haliden leaned down and examined one. It was covered in colorful sketches of Alimane gods and landscapes. Immaculate artistry. Such a shame for it to rot in this stink, he thought as the book sank back beneath the murk.

  When they finally reached the end of the tunnel they were greeted by a set of steel bars. Behind it stood a single pillar set in the center of a bare chamber.

  Willem rustled in his pockets and withdrew a brass key. “Touch nothing,” he reminded them as he slid it into the rusty lock.

  There was a loud click, followed by a piercing shriek as the door swung open.

  The charger entered, halting before the pillar. It was made of polished steel and dotted with hundreds of tiny rivets.

  “Valnen al tulis,” he whispered, placing his palm on top of it.

  Haliden’s heart quickened as the pillar extended upward and rotated counterclockwise on its base. “What is this?” he asked.

  “A Tritan chamber lock,” Willem replied. “Very difficult to pick.”

  “So how do you plan on doing it?”

  Willem opened a small panel located at the midsection of the pillar. “I set it, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.” He withdrew a small box from his pocket and opened the lid. Inside was a fingernail-size chip of rock, which he quickly placed on his tongue.

  Meridium, Haliden thought as the charger placed his hands inside the pillar. The same, priceless mineral that set off the Culver war twenty-five turns ago.

  There was a loud thud, followed by a metallic click as shackles clamped about the charger’s wrists.

  Evetner tensed. He was about to step back when a gate slammed down behind them, trapping all three inside the chamber.

  Willem looked up at the ceiling. It was covered in steel plates, which were beginning to glow and groan as hidden heating elements switched on behind them.

  Sweat dripped down his forehead and neck, soaking his cloak. “Nimra varna che,” he whispered as an electrical tinge coursed throughout his body.

  Haliden raised a hand to his face, shielding himself from the heat. “By the gods, shut it down!”

  Willem ignored him as the meridium coursed throughout his body. “Tre nah von gred,” he whispered, the ancient focal words binding him to the mineral’s energy.

  “For fuck’s sake—finish it!” Evetner cried.

  There was a loud pop, accompanied by a white flash inside the pillar.

  “Yor tre um din!” the charger cried.

  The ceiling and wall panels darkened as ice crystallized across their surfaces. Seconds later, the air in the chamber began to cool.

  Willem hunched over the device, ribbons of steam rising from his sweat-soaked clothing. When he removed his hands from the slot, his palms were covered in blood.

  Haliden tore a piece of his shirt off and began wrapping it around the charger’s hands. “Did you know that would happen?”

  Willem sighed. “Of course. I’m the one who set the damn trap.”

  Evetner looked at his charred sleeves and shoulders. “You best tell us why we’re here, charger.”

  Willem nodded. “I need something in order to break the barriers. Meridium. Twelve grams to be exact.”

  Haliden felt a tinge of excitement flood his veins. He’d been hearing tales of the mineral since childhood, how it came from fallen stars and could alter entire weather systems. It was the root of the Circle’s power, the very same empire that had sent Willem here to die.

  But to see it actually used…

  Willem straightened. “I’m opening the lock now, so don’t get all jittery on me.” He placed his hands on the top of the p
illar and pressed down. Haliden watched as it slowly lowered into the floor. When it stopped, a door opened on the far side of the chamber.

  “Let’s go,” Willem said.

  Haliden followed close behind, making sure to step only where Willem stepped. After a few hundred footfalls, they entered a chamber with high arching ceilings and three steel doors.

  “Which one?” Evetner asked as they fanned out across the dusty floor.

  Willem approached the left door and traced a symbol across its surface. Moments later, it glowed red as intense heat wafted off its surface.

  “Stand back,” he said. He closed his eyes and began whispering the same focus words from before. After a few seconds the door swung open.

  Willem clutched his chest, gasping.

  “You okay?” Evetner asked.

  The charger nodded. “It’s been a while, that’s all.”

  Evetner approached the door and raised his torch. Inside was a stone pedestal with a small leather pouch crumpled atop it.

  Willem pushed past him and scooped it up. “We’re done here.”

  “That’s it?” Evetner asked.

  “You want fire and dragons?”

  Evetner shrugged. “I just thought there would be something a little more glamorous waiting for us.”

  Willem laughed. “I hold in my hands two ounces of pure meridium dust. Do you know how much this is worth?”

  Haliden’s heart skipped a beat as he stared at the tiny pouch. “A king’s ransom,” he breathed.

  Willem laughed. “Try three.”

  “Bullshit,” Evetner said.

  Willem looked at him. “This is pure. Uncut and undiluted. And it’s probably all that remains in Alimane.” He brought it to his nose and took a deep breath.

  “How in the gods did you get it?” Haliden asked.

  “It was simple, really. The Circle told the leaders of Alg, Tritan, and Previn to donate their lot or risk the Rot crawling through their city gates by turn’s end. After hearing that, they were only too happy to comply.”

  “I thought all the meridium was rationed by the Overwatch after the Culver war?” Evetner said.

  “Every continent has stores secreted away,” Willem replied. “There’s nothing anyone can ever do about that.” He patted the new bulge in his pocket. “Well now… enough history, eh? I believe we have a hanging to attend?”

  The streets were quiet as the trio moved toward the market district.

  “Your people aren’t the friendliest bunch,” Haliden noted as an elderly woman glared at them from her doorway.

  Willem laughed. “They’re cautious around strangers. The last bunch we let in turned out to be a gang of rapists and pederasts.”

  Evetner shook his head. “The wolves are on the loose everywhere now.”

  Willem huffed. “Don’t give them too much pity. Haven’t you noticed what’s in some of the gutters?” He pointed to a gaping hole between two shuttered homes. Clouds of flies danced above mounds of torn clothing, fecal matter, and what appeared to be human bones.

  “What in the gods is that?” Haliden asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Haliden gagged. “For fuck’s sake, they’re eating their bloody own?”

  “Some have turned to it,” Willem said. “Usually they eat just the sick and dead. Or those who try to harm us.” He pointed back into the pit. “One man’s corpse can sustain a family for weeks. And when you’ve endured the kind of hunger we’ve known, any scrap, whether it be leather or a molester named Hemren Grot, is fair game.”

  Evetner approached the pit and poked his sword into a lump of muddy cloth. When he lifted it, a skull fell to the ground. A skull with a hole gouged directly through its forehead.

  Willem sighed as he stared into its empty eyes. “This is why we must leave.”

  Silent, sullen figures wandered about the market, as an emaciated minstrel performed to a group of sickly-looking children.

  A city of ghosts, Haliden thought. He tried to imagine what it had been like, trapped and forgotten for all these turns. Stranded in a dead city under constant siege by hunger and rot. This is the hells, he thought.

  A man shambled toward them. He was taut and skinny, with a large red nose that betrayed a love of drink.

  “Where have you been?” he asked as he approached Willem. Like everyone else in Marigel, his clothes were threadbare and stained, patched together with rags and clumsy stitches.

  “Some business needed to be attended to.”

  The man burst into laughter. “Business? You striking a deal with the devil? Or perhaps our friends here have a way out of this shithole.”

  Willem sighed. “How many so far today, Brendle? Four, five tankards?”

  Brendle laughed, revealing a set of brown and black teeth embedded in receding gums. “It’s a celebration! I had a lucky night at skulls with Darius and that skulk, Trevor. Figured a few sips were in order.”

  Willem betrayed a smile. “Friends, this is my confidant, Brendle Twine. Last of the city guard and my closest friend.”

  Brendle looked them over and nodded. “You stand out here like boils on a whore’s cunt. Can’t remember the last time I saw faces so damn plump and clean.”

  “Have they begun gathering?” Willem asked.

  Brendle nodded. “Damn early, too. Can’t imagine what’s so pressing needs be spoken before first call.”

  Willem reached into his pocket and handed the meridium pouch to Brendle. “Take this and stay at my place. There may be trouble.”

  Brendle’s jovial expression quickly slackened as he glanced at the pouch. “What in the hells is going on?”

  “Just do as I say. If all goes well I’ll meet you back here within the call.”

  “And if it goes to shit?”

  “Than we’re all damned.”

  Brendle grinned. “Well, by the gods… I thought it was something serious.”

  Evetner cocked an eyebrow. “Is he sure it wasn’t six tankards?”

  Brendle laughed. “Friend, we’ve been damned for turns now, surrounded by death, hunger, and disease. As long as there’s sour apple ale left in the city, I’ll meet death with a smile.”

  “Well, for now stay your tankard and go to my place,” Willem said. “I’ll come for you if all goes well. And ready my things.”

  “All of them?”

  Willem nodded. “Everything.”

  Brendle’s smile dimmed. “Just promise you won’t leave me alone here, Willem. These other fools… I’m afraid they might drive me to drink.”

  Willem grabbed Brendle’s arm. “You’ve been a brother to me. I won’t forget that. Not ever.”

  Brendle tucked the pouch into his pocket and forced a smile. “Well, friend… sounds like things just might get a bit exciting around here.”

  Willem sighed. “Count on it.”

  17

  Voices echoed from Marigel’s town hall, a tangle of angered shouts and pleas that could be heard for several blocks.

  “Just let me do the talking,” Willem whispered as they approached the entrance.

  A bored looking man sat beside the doorway spinning a sword on its tip. “Where have you been, Will? That cunt Fenre keeps asking for ya.”

  “Tending to affairs,” Willem replied.

  The guard shrugged. “Well, just make sure you keep your new friends close. People been acting funny lately. You don’t want any of them ending up in a gutter, if you no what I mean.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Willem replied.

  The town hall was packed, the stink of body odor and adreena fumes hanging in the air like a living fog.

  Willem led the two men to a bench and motioned for them to sit. “Talk to no one until I address you,” he said. “The floor will be open soon and then I will be allowed to speak.”

  Evetner shook his head. “I should have my sword. This is madness.”

  Haliden scanned the room. Dozens of people were watching them, their hungry eyes whispering v
iolence. They’d sooner eat us than let us speak, he thought with a sudden chill.

  Since he’d stared into the waste pit, he’d wanted nothing more than to leave this place. But Willem refused to slink off into the night. Whether because of guilt or a hunger for redemption, the man seemed steadfast on getting them all killed.

  “Jenar Tal has the floor,” a voice announced at the rear of the hall.

  The room fell silent as a middle aged man, tanned and well built, his fingernails crusted with mud and his hands thick with calluses, bowed before the podium.

  “My men have been tallying potato yields in the southern patches for the past three months,” he said, “and they are worse than I feared. Grub rots taken to the soil. We’ll be without in two… maybe three months at this rate. And that’s an optimistic estimation at best.”

  “Have you been properly sifting the soil?” one of the men sitting in the center of the chamber asked. He was plump and well dressed, his skin pale and free of scars. A bureaucrat, Haliden thought with disgust. The type of man who sent good men to their deaths while sipping Algiane wine in front of a warm fire.

  “Have you enriched the soil with manure?” the man went on, a condescending edge in his voice. “After all, you’re our agriculturist. Our expert!”

  Hands clapped in agreement.

  “Agriculturist?” Jenner spat. “I grew black market adreena before the Rot. A weed, Kytle. Not vegetables!”

  “Just see to it that the crops come in,” Kytle said. “Until then your family’s rations are cut to one parcel a day.” And with that he slammed a gavel down and turned his attention back to his paperwork.

  Jenner stepped forward, his hands curled into fists. But a woman quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his seat.

  “Onto the issue of sewers,” Kytle said as he shuffled disinterestedly through his papers.

  A small, stumpy man stood. He was filthy, his threadbare clothes stained brown and patched from the waist down. When he spoke, his voice came hoarse and exhausted.

  “The western conduits are clogged with debris and backing up into the abandoned quarters. Without more men we won’t be able to clear much more than a few yards a day. Also, we heard voices in the Sanct Aquifer. I think some of Nate’s men are holing up down there. Gods know why, though.”