Keys of Candor: Trilogy

by Casey Eanes

  Grift’s mind filled with hope at the lonely sounds. Lotte was not far. He was almost home. The sounds of the field birds brought tears to his eyes, making him ache for Cotswold. For Rose. For Kull. The pain of losing his son was more than Grift could process. It was enough to make him want to lie down and die, to give up, but he would not allow the tempest within him to gain any ground. He had to keep pressing on. He had to keep fighting, if only for Kull’s sake and memory. You can’t go there now, he repeated to himself. You can’t ever go there.

  After several long days and sleepless nights wandering through the wilderness, Grift finally made it to a large opening that spread before him like an ocean. The clearing came together over the bend, the patches of fields merging into a vast, open prairie that stretched as far as the horizon. Many miles away, Grift could see the outline of the Asban Mountains that stood over Vale. He had done it. After so many months, Grift Shepherd had once again stepped into Lotte. He drew in a deep breath and sighed.

  I’m home. Despite the torture of the last few months, the sight of home gave him a glimmer of deep hope. He walked another mile or two, choosing to make camp by a small stream, taking in the gorgeous space that was his home. He laid his head back, his eyes squinting under the bright sun hanging above him. Whatever sleep he would get would be in the daylight. Moving at night would help to avoid the border patrols. As the sun ran its bright circuit, Grift gave in to the exhaustion that followed him like a ghost.

  When Grift woke, he could barely see the markings of his field map in the fading twilight. He squinted, running a thin red line on the worn paper to a supply cache for the roaming Lottian guard details. He estimated the route from where he thought he was; ten miles. The town nearest to the cache was Tindler, a small manufacturing village that bought lumber from either Preost or the Asban regions to process. Tindler would give him a chance to resupply and find out more news before making his way to Cotswold.

  The last contact Grift had with anyone in Cotswold was before Willyn kidnapped him. The months away felt like years. He rubbed his face in disbelief, trying to erase the pain and loss from his mind and focus on his destination, but the flames swallowing his hometown had never stopped burning in his mind. Is anything left in Cotswold? The thought made him shudder, and he buried it.

  Grift forced himself to stop walking down the dark path in his mind and focus instead on the cache. Folding his map, he calculated the distance. One full night and I will be there, he thought.

  He set out, heading southeast just as the stars began to fill the sky. Lotte had trained and developed a sophisticated system of border patrols to protect the Realm from outside threats. Patrols would leave their stations and circulate across the vast border of the Realm in a synchronized, yet unpredictable pattern. Like a tree’s lifeline. That was the easiest explanation when training new recruits. If you were to look at the border patrol of Lotte, it looked like the inside of a felled tree, concentric lines of guards patrolling the Realm. The capital, Vale, was the most heavily guarded, protected by nearly a hundred different patrols that endlessly marched through the wilderness of the land, when not stationed at a town or city. Grift’s military career began in the wilderness, walking midnight border patrols during the Rihtian and Grogan conflicts forty years prior.

  He was thankful that he was only trying to get to Tindler, far outside the tightening circles of the patrols that orbited Vale. You are still very close to the border, he warned himself. He shoved the thought aside, trying to ignore the fact that the cache he sought brought with it a high likelihood of unwanted exposure. Determined, he kept marching through the darkness as his mind wrestled with things unseen.

  “Thank Aleph.” The small concrete bunker sat untouched and unspoiled by any recent patrol. It was loaded with rifles, ammunition, and canned food. Grift ripped open a can of peaches and threw back its contents. He swallowed the fruit whole, the sweet, sticky juice running down his face, covering his beard in a film of sugary syrup. He had gone for several days without any real food. He snapped up some readymade field rations and ate until his stomach groaned with displeasure.

  After taking a few moments to digest, he examined the contents of the cache. In the back, beyond the food, weapons, and supplies was an object covered in a thick blue tarp. Grift made his way toward it, his heart hammering with unforeseen hope. Please, just let it work.

  The contraption waiting under the tarp could hardly be called a rook in its current state, though Grift could clearly see that was what it once was. Recovered by the Lottians after some unknown battle with the Grogans, the machine had been crudely reassembled, making Grift wonder about its ability to run. There was not much to the thing—just an engine, a seat, and a thruster.

  Grift got on the cobbled-together heap and kicked the throttle. The engine heaved, like a monster kicked awake from its slumber, but the engine turned over with a roar. The rook lifted off the ground, rumbling with life.

  Not the quietest ride, but it will do.

  Grift anchored the hovercraft, allowing the engine to run for a while. Aleph knows it needs to run; the engine is knocking like crazy. As the rook idled, Grift went about the cache and restocked his pack with more canned food, ammo, and water. Then he slung a rifle over his shoulder and holstered a pistol to his side. The welcome comfort of arming himself again was a bigger relief than Grift had expected. He trudged through the cache for some more weapons when the rook sputtered to a halt and crashed to the ground.

  “Come on!” Grift ran to the rook and looked over its few dials and displays. “Ugh! No gas?” Grift could barely believe his own stupidity.

  Grift ripped through several shelves before the blue gas canisters caught his eye in the rear corner of the hold. He ran to them, but his hopes were dashed when the first three were empty. He kicked them to the side just as his foot thudded against one container that was weighed down with fuel. Grift breathed a sigh of relief. He shouldered his pack and picked up the jug of fuel, not wasting time to refuel the machine. As he poured the fuel Grift’s heart hammered up into this throat.

  What was that?

  In the distance, he heard the sound of voices. They were faint, but distinct.

  “Did you open the cache?” a man said.

  “Of course not. No one goes in those things,” replied a younger sounding voice.

  Grift threw the fuel to the side and hopped back on the rook. He kicked the starter, but the engine refused to budge. He pressed at the throttle several times to try and prime the engine, but still, nothing happened. He hopped off the rook and glanced around the door to the cache. Two flashlights bobbed across the field no more than one hundred feet away.

  Grift mounted the rook again and pushed the starter over and over. “Come on! Work!” he shouted. “Work!”

  As he pushed in the starter, the engine fumbled over itself and sputtered back to life. Grift slammed down the accelerator and the rook rocketed from the cache with a cloud of black smoke.

  The two guardsmen dove out of the way as Grift flashed by. The rook was struggling to hit a good stride, but Grift laid in on the throttle. Shots rang out, but Grift was soon out of sight and reach. Grift slapped at the top of the rook, curses filling his mind. They know someone is on a rook and I hardly have any gas. It will be a miracle to get to Tindler, much less Cotswold.

  With limited fuel, Grift threw out his plan to snake through the normal patrols. Instead, he decided he would dissect the routes and miss the soldiers he knew would be looking for him. He hammered the throttle and the crumbling rook roared through the night. Its speed would have to be enough. There was no other option.

  Luck, it seemed, was on his side. Grift stopped on the ridge of a hill overlooking the outskirts of Tindler. He killed the engine, and the rook slammed to the ground in a dramatic chorus of spattering and wheezing. Grift shook his head and rolled his eyes. “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

  The moonlight provided just enough illumination to confirm his locatio
n, but little else. His mind ran through the scenarios. He needed gas, and quickly. It would be too dangerous to barter in the daylight. His face had been beamed on every datalink from here to Elum, and he wasn’t about to risk having Seam on his trail. He squinted against the shadows, trying to discern if anyone was out on the street. Even in the moonlight the town seemed desolate and felt extremely dark. Grift started down the hill when he came to a sudden realization.

  There are no lights on.

  Grift blended in with the shadows, careful not to take any chances. He snuck toward the first building on the edge of town, hoping to find either fuel or someone with recent news. He found neither. Glancing into windows was like staring into an abyss. If someone was still living in Tindler, they did not want to be found. Grift could make out some evidence of earlier Grogan attacks, bullet holes and scorch marks, but it was superficial compared to the damage they did to Cotswold. There was no reason for the city to be abandoned. It was still very livable, yet there were no signs of life.

  As he examined the buildings more closely, Grift noticed that many houses and buildings were left with doors still standing open despite the hour. The scene made no sense, but Grift forced himself to ignore the curiosity of the situation. None of this matters. Find some fuel and make for Cotswold. Find Rose.

  Grift nodded, agreeing with himself. His footsteps were soft as he walked up the abandoned street. A fueling station was here. His mind was fuzzy on details of the town. It had been many years since his last patrol brought him to Tindler. In the dark streets, Grift tried to navigate himself through a jumble of mixed up memories.

  Getting close to the square now. Find some fuel and get out.

  The small, open square expanded before Grift. He squatted, watching for any signs of movement, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Remnants of an Alephian monument sat crumpled in the square’s center. The fountains that had surrounded it were also dormant, the smell of stale, stagnant water filling Grift’s nose.

  Grift scanned the square, and his eyes landed on what he had hoped to see. A single lamppost stood on the far southeast corner of the square. It wasn’t lit, but Grift knew if he was going to find any fuel it would be at the filling station identified by the lamp.

  No chance I am cutting across the square, he thought, his mind heightened with a sense of danger. No cover. Western side of the square is too ruined. Too much rubble, approach would be too slow. Looks like the eastern side is it.

  Grift tightened his grip on his pistol and crept along the eastern border of the square. As he slid through the shadows, he kept checking his surroundings. Even with no lights burning in the town, the moonlight was enough to make Grift feel dangerously exposed. The small shop canopies offered some cover and when possible Grift cut down back alleys running parallel to the square.

  After a few minutes, Grift was under the fueling station lamp. The old building’s front door was hanging open, and the barrels out front were either overturned or busted open.

  “Looks like someone beat me to it,” grumbled Grift. He tapped on a few barrels but they all returned a hollow ring. He sighed and pulled out a small light as he approached the front door of the station. He stepped into the building and flicked the light on, sweeping it from corner to corner. The room was still and silent. The only sign of life were some cobwebs accumulating on the abandoned furniture. Grift slipped behind the counter and creaked open a door leading to the storage room.

  “Please, Aleph. Please. I just want to get to Rose.” Grift let his light wash over the storage room shelving. His heart peaked as he spied three unopened fuel canisters.

  “Thank you!” Grift dashed for the shelf. He went to lift the first canister but it had no weight. Empty! The second canister calmed his nerves as it sloshed with valuable fuel. He holstered his pistol and lifted the last container, pleased to find that it was also full.

  “Should be just enough as long as that piece of trash will start again.”

  Grift pushed out into the shadows and made his way back along the storefronts lining the square. As he was passing the halfway mark, a movement across the square caught his attention. Grift kneeled behind a small table and set the fuel down. He stared out over the small opening and waited.

  Getting jumpy, old man. Seeing things out here in the dark. He shook his head and started to stand before glimpsing another movement, but this time it was distinct and obvious. Something was moving behind the rubble on the western border of the square. Pale. Humanoid. Aleph. Grift cursed beneath his breath and shrunk behind an overturned bistro table.

  The shadows obscured the movement, and Grift could not tell if he had been detected. As badly as he wanted to rush and get to Rose he knew it would be better to wait. After several minutes, the activity subsided and the square was silent. Grift picked up his two jugs of fuel and slipped down an alley, adding distance between himself and the square. Within a few minutes, Grift was just a couple blocks from the town’s edge.

  As Grift neared the clearing, he lifted his arm to wipe sweat from his brow, but his hand slipped and one of the canisters fell, the metal jug clanking like a cymbal on the ground. Grift froze and pressed against the nearest wall, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Nothing. There was no response to his clumsy mistake. Grift chuckled at his paranoia and lifted the fallen canister as he walked toward the clearing and his rook.

  As Grift left the city streets and made his way into the hills, a thunderstorm of feet pounded against the ground behind him, echoing off the cobblestone streets. Grift sprinted, his mind pumping with adrenaline, but the fuel he carried was making running up the steep hill difficult. There were at least a dozen figures pouring out of Tindler, clamoring after him. They looked human enough, but Grift knew what they were. He cursed and churned his legs as hard as he could, but the morels kept gaining ground.

  Desperate, Grift threw one of the canisters to the ground. He pushed on a little faster and spun on his heels, lowering his pistol on the abandoned tank. The morels pounced on the barrel, just in time for Grift to fire a shot. A violent fireball erupted, filling the darkness with an explosion of light. Most of the pack incinerated, their bodies thrown in pieces across the field. Grift kept scrambling for the rook, his lungs burning. He knew he had taken out most of the swarm, all while sacrificing miles of fuel, but the sound of shrieks and screams let Grift know this encounter was far from over.

  He looked over his shoulder. Three morels were still pursuing him, roaring their way up the hill, their fangs barred. He ripped off five shots, sending one face first into the dirt. He turned to fire on another but he was too late. A morel that had once been a young girl made a titanic leap up the hillside and slammed into him, slashing at his hands. Grift swung all his weight into a spin as he smashed the remaining canister of fuel against the girl’s face. The container let out a loud crack as it met its mark, crumbling the nightmare that was her face, before she stumbled to the ground, dead.

  Grift eyed his pistol but knew he didn’t have time to reach it. He kicked the downed morel in the jaw with a sickening crack for good measure and then turned to run for the rook. The last of the three pursuers was not moving as fast. From a quick glance, Grift could tell it had been injured by his firebomb. Ribbons of charred flesh hung from a mangled arm, and half of its hollow face looked as if it had been burnt away, but it was moving fast enough to keep him in a full sprint. It’s half-ruined, singed body smoked in the night air, and one milky eye locked on Grift in pursuit. Its mouth opened and a dry horrible scream fell out, making Grift run in a panic for the rifle he had recovered from the cache. He grabbed it up and spun around unloading several rounds.

  The monster’s lifeless body quivered at his feet, and Grift let out a sigh of relief. His whole body was shaking, and he bent down to catch his breath. He steadied himself and picked up the dented fuel canister.

  “You were worth it,” he said to the container, his voice still wavering from the adrenaline soaring through him
.

  Grift turned and began pouring the fuel into the rook, doing his best to shake away the horror that still clung to him. As the last of the fuel dripped in, a searing pain exploded down Grift’s arm, and he heard a ragged, moaning breath. He turned, and the bloodied, broken hollow that had been the face of the young girl was next to him, swiping her claws at him. He deflected one of the blows with the empty gas can only to receive another terrifying gash across his forearm. Grift screamed in pain and slammed the metal can across the girl’s forearm, just as her claws ripped through the metal as if it were paper.

  Grift hopped back several feet and slipped a knife from his belt. His eyes were wide with fear and he bobbed from side to side as the shambling girl stalked toward him, swiping her claws in the moonlight. The beast girl gurgled with heavy, drowning breaths as she approached, the one eye left in her skull never blinking.

  She dove for Grift with outstretched arms, but he ducked to the side and stabbed his blade into the back of her thigh. The morel let out a shrieking howl and swiped again for Grift’s arm but missed. Grift swung his knife into the creature’s hand, but the girl did not relent. She pressed into him, pinning Grift against the rook, allowing the blade to slip deeper into her palm. She cooed at him, clicking her broken jaw and growling as she pressed her jagged, twisted teeth for his throat. Grift tightened his grip on his knife and pulled it out of her hand only to plunge it into the morel’s neck. The morel ripped backwards in agony, but Grift grasped the back of her neck and slammed her face into the fuselage of the rook. He did not relent as he continued to hammer the morel’s face against the metal casing time and time again.