Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  Wyand was horrified at first, but then he understood when he saw what Eyrie held after she lowered her hand. It was Tilia’s sima, cut free so it could be added to the Woven Wall. His vision blurred with tears, but he could see well enough as the Voice of War vanished among the droves of people moving throughout the camp. When Eyrie returned, she not only held Tilia’s sima but a large sack as well.

  “She entrusted all of them to me,” Eyrie said softly as she sat down once more. Her voice wavered as she continued. “The sima of every fighter who suffered the haugaeldr’s sting during our attack is in this bag. I’m to return them to Cynmere and honor their sacrifice by adding their stories to the Woven Wall.”

  The music in the distance ceased abruptly, but Wyand paid it no mind. Instead. he caressed the side of Eyrie’s face gently, subconsciously brushing the back of his hand against her sima. “I understand,” he said. “We’ll leave tonight. I’m sure there will be others who want to accompany us back to Cynmere as soon as possible, especially if they’re supporting an effort as profound as the one you were just given.”

  Eyrie’s eyes brightened with appreciation as she took his hand in hers once again, but the sound of murmurs growing louder throughout the camp brought a sudden frown not only to her face, but to Wyand’s as well. People who had so recently been celebrating, people who had just survived the most grueling fight of their lives, now appeared worried as they stared towards the eastern sky.

  Naturally, Wyand’s gaze followed theirs, but he saw nothing remarkable. The same low bank of clouds lingered as it had all day, flat, unbroken, and seemingly endless, although now at least the storms had stopped. Then he saw it—a motion just beneath the clouds that didn’t make sense. It was a subtle rippling of the air, but it looked so unnatural and out of place he could understand why the others had paused in their revelry.

  “What is that?” Wyand asked, though he was certain from Eyrie’s stunned expression that she knew nothing of the strange phenomenon either. She attempted no reply, and as they both looked on, the rippling intensified before seeming to collapse in on itself. An instant later, an immense circle with bright, wavering edges appeared, and within its confines it held an impossible view. Though it was still afternoon, a field of stars glimmered inside the strange ring, but they weren’t in any arrangement Wyand recognized.

  As he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing, Wyand’s perspective suddenly shifted to a place he had been once before. He felt himself hovering above a planet draped in greens and blues, a majestic place with soaring peaks and dense jungles. It was only a flicker before the brief Vision was gone, but in that moment Wyand knew he had seen Provenance—the origin point of all mankind. “The Old Kingdom,” he breathed as his sight returned to normal. Somehow, the hole in the sky was tied to Provenance, but he could not yet understand how. As ten thousand new questions took root in Wyand’s mind, one thing was certain: the first true Kingdomturn had finally arrived.

  EPILOGUE

  Droplets of rain coursed slowly down the front of Curator Gerrick’s helmet as he examined the forest around him. Evergreens—or a species closely resembling them—stood at fixed intervals on all sides of the small clearing where he’d arrived. These were planted, Gerrick concluded with a nod. It was a strong indicator that civilization was somewhere nearby, especially when combined with the tendrils of gray smoke that drifted between the trees. A single peal of thunder rumbled overhead and the rain began to fall faster. Gerrick spotted a narrow path at the edge of the clearing, so he decided to follow it in the hope that it would eventually lead to a refuge of some kind.

  As he wound his way through the countless rows of trees, Gerrick expected to encounter some inhabitant of this world—it was called “Crimorrah” according to the beacon identifier—but there was no one in sight. He did, however, catch a glimpse of something through the trees that was so unusual he came to an abrupt stop. In the distance, a massive tower stood out against the overcast horizon. It had been many lifetimes since the activation of a beacon on one of the Seed Worlds, but from every scrap of history he’d studied, structures of the magnitude of this tower shouldn’t exist on a planet with a human population only a few generations old. It was a curiosity, to be sure, but staring at it also brought on an eerie feeling of anxiety that Gerrick couldn’t explain.

  It’s probably excitement, he reasoned as he started forward once more. For the duration of his time in the Order of Darganfyd, Gerrick’s role had exclusively been one of destruction. Assassinations, despite being of vital importance, were the aspect of being a Curator that he enjoyed the least. Now, for the first time, he’d been given a task that didn’t require bloodshed. Instead, he had the honor of being the first person the inhabitants of Crimorrah had ever met who came from beyond their isolated world. For Gerrick, it was a much-needed change of pace.

  After several more twists of the woodland path, the forest gave way to a large plain covered in even rows that appeared to be for crops. Recently harvested, Gerrick noted—another good sign. The full height of the tower then came into view, but it only held the Curator’s attention for a moment. For a world to activate its beacon, that meant that the people who lived there felt secure and stable enough to exist without the aid of their Cultivators. It also meant they were eager to meet the other pockets of humanity scattered throughout the stars. This day should have been a joyous celebration; instead, beneath the strange tower lay evidence of an enormous conflict—charred earth and piles of debris radiated in all directions, fire had recently ravaged most of the nearby woodlands, and bodies were the only proof that could be found of a human population.

  Gerrick’s earlier feelings of anxiety were confirmed at the sight of the first corpse. As a precaution, he activated his glimmer suit to vanish from view a moment later. He pulled his hood and cloak into place and drew the dagger that was always waiting by his side. It was a fine blade, crafted by the ancient Shan’ek Gaari Forgepriests using some long-forgotten secret that allowed its edge to never dull. Still, despite the weapon’s beauty and the fact that it was his stalwart travelling companion, Gerrick had hoped to leave it sheathed today. He sighed and made his way to the nearest pile of rubble.

  To say that the victims of this conflict had died painfully was a gross understatement. From what the Curator could ascertain, the scorch marks lining the ground were the result of plasma charges, and big ones at that. Many of the dead hadn’t been hit directly, but had instead succumbed to wounds incurred by simply being too close to where one of the blasts of energy struck the ground. It was a grisly scene, but the presence of blood near several of the bodies meant that this destruction was recent; no more than a few hours could have passed since the last deadly blow was dealt.

  Closer to the tower Gerrick crept amid the grim stillness, with rain and wind the only sounds inside this city of the dead. Still, someone had activated the beacon, so he knew there must be survivors somewhere. The tower was the most likely location for the beacon, but the Curator began to notice an unsettling trend the closer he moved to it. All of the devastation below seemed to have been dealt from this tower, while it bore almost no damage at all. He eyed the heights of the spire warily, thankful to be shrouded by his glimmer suit.

  Gerrick at last approached an entrance to the tower, taking care to avoid the numerous puddles and patches of mud along the way for fear of his footsteps being heard. As he crept onto the edge of a pile of rubble, the sound of something besides wind and rain held him in place, motionless. He waited, listening, but there was nothing. Then, just as he was about to take his next step, he heard it again: a series of three faint chimes that seemed to be coming from within the wreckage.

  The Curator’s thoughts raced as he considered his options. He looked up worriedly and realized that the top of the tower was obscured from view when standing this close to its base. It was a small comfort, but in the end, it was the fact that convinced him to focus on the pile of stones and mortar before him instead of the tower
itself. This was the first and only sign he’d been given thus far of a possible survivor on this world, so it would be foolish to ignore it. Once decided, he sheathed his dagger and got to work.

  Slowly and quietly, Gerrick began removing one stone after another. Every few seconds he would pause; then, each time the chimes sounded, he was encouraged to resume his efforts. The sound grew louder and more distinct until at last he found its source—a small metallic box, gripped in the outstretched hand of someone buried deep within the rubble. Gerrick held his breath as he watched intently, then, to his amazement, the hand moved weakly up and down and the chimes sounded once more. Rainwater had pooled beneath the rocks and was rising quickly to a point where the box and its owner would soon be submerged.

  Determination replaced caution and the Curator’s movements grew faster. Soon, the survivor of this inexplicable conflict was exposed to the open air. It was a tall bald man, bruised and bleeding, lying face down on the muddy ground. Gerrick turned him over gently and rejoiced as the man’s chest rose and fell slowly. His eyes were closed and his face battered, but Gerrick could see the bald man was young—somewhere between six and seven hundred Msec*. He was alive for the moment, but in need of immediate care if he was to be counted as a survivor for much longer.

  Gerrick was certain there was only one course of action to take. He opened the channel on his tethercom and spoke softly. “Seed world Crimorrah found to be hostile. Threat origin unknown. Sole survivor located; needs medical. Request immediate return travel from my location.”

  Thunder rolled overhead during the pause that followed. “Approved,” a voice said in his right ear, and an instant later, a small Fracture appeared less than five meters from where Gerrick stood. Within its shimmering boundary was a view of the Transit Room, with other members of the Order preparing an area to receive the injured man.

  Curator Gerrick lifted the survivor. “I don’t know if you can hear or understand me,” Gerrick said as he slogged through the mud. “If you can, know that we will do everything we can to save you. You are welcome in our care while your injuries mend, but there will be questions before you will be allowed to leave.” The bald man did not respond and Gerrick cast a final glance at the ominous tower that loomed above the ruined city. “What happened here?” he wondered aloud in disbelief, hopeful that answers and justice would soon be found.

  *Msec = megasecond (one million seconds)

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Aemetta: āy-`met-ə

  An’ymb Glor: `ən-əmb-`glȯr

  Cofa: `cō-fə

  Crolun Raigh: `crō-lən-`rī

  Cynmere: `sin-mir

  Dism Slyde: `diz-m-`slīd

  Drugoth: `drü-gäth

  Edan: `e-dən

  Eyrie: `ey-rē

  Fadian: `fā-dē-ən

  Fyrnraed: `fərn-rāyd

  Galbrun: `gal-brən

  Gerrick: `ger-ik

  Halwen: `hal-wen

  Haugaeldr: `hä-gel-dər

  Keltin: `kel-tin

  Lar’ymb Sada: `lär-əmb-`sə-də

  Leomar: `lē-ō-mär

  Linwyrt: `lin-wərt

  Locboran: läk-`bȯr-ən

  Melsca: `mel-skə

  Nihmadien: ni-`mā-dē-ən

  Roinn: `rō-in

  Shan’ek Gaari: `shən-ek-`gär-ē

  Silax: `sī-liks

  Slatfyne: `slat-fīn

  Sreathan: `srē-thən

  Stora: `stȯr-ə

  Tir: t`ēr

  Wyand: `wī-ənd

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Eager to find an escape from his day job in corporate America,

  Matt began jotting down ideas in 2013 for short science fiction and fantasy stories. Several years and several hundred thousand words later, Kingdomturn at last emerged as a combination of many of those ideas.

  In addition to writing, Matt enjoys exploring the latest advances in science and technology while paradoxically still using a flip phone and pursuing hobbies like blacksmithing and stone masonry. Supported by his wife, their two daughters, and a variety of floor-ruining house pets, his quiet life in the mountains of Virginia fulfills all of his dreams and then some.

  Want to connect? Follow Matt on Twitter @TheAllSmith

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