Into the Fold

by Chase Blackwood

  The bridge shook with death. It vibrated with the blind struggle for life.

  Footsteps echoed past me. They were sure and strong. They belonged to Aeden.

  The sound of Templas steel slashed at the air. It cut into the armored flesh of our annihilation.

  A blaring cry of wintry intensity clawed at my ears. It rang at the base of my skull. Aeden had cut one of the Hounds of Ansuz.

  The broken beat of flapping wings surrounded us. Screeches of terror filled the night. The clash of sword and claw, tooth and vile, shaped the misery of eventide.

  The rope about my waist pulled tight. I stumbled and fell. My hands clawed for purchase. They fumbled and slipped and then nothing. I swung through the air like bait on a hook.

  My mind reeled in panic.

  Harpies descended like a school of attacking fish. A frenzy of flapping wings and piercing calls marked the night.

  Another scream and the sound of ripping flesh.

  Something brushed passed me. My heart stopped. My breath caught in my chest. I had become a statue among the stones. Fear had paralyzed me.

  A series of echoing shouts ripped through the air. They broke through my skin and reverberated in my ears. Flapping wings fled and scattered.

  Something struck me.

  The darkness descended as the Fold faded from view.

  Chapter 68

  “War doesn’t make one great any more than tragedy defines a person.” Herlewin’s Letters of Apology

  Golden fingers of light peered through the persistent weather. They graced my face with hints of warmth. They probed at me, sending filtered bits of hope through my closed lids.

  I peeled open my eyes, only to be rewarded with disorientation. The world swung gently below, disappearing into a vast pit of stone and mist. Above were the suspended bridge, clouds, hints of a blue sky and sunlight.

  I was hanging upside down. My face felt strange, bloated from excess blood.

  My head throbbed uncomfortably. I touched my cheeks, they were puffy. I ran my hands carefully over my scalp and was rewarded with a fresh sense of pain and the sticky texture of blood.

  How much blood had I lost hanging upside down?

  I blinked, feeling weak and slow. It was like I was trying to think whilst being submerged underwater.

  I glanced up, at the bridge again.

  I was deep in the Fold, but why?

  My mind sloughed through muddied thought. I picked at various ideas until one held weight.

  I was on a quest. That was a start. But what sort of quest?

  Now my head was pounding with pain. It was a relentless drumming against the inside of my skull. Yet, I still struggled to piece my situation together. Why in the hells was I hanging upside down from a bridge, bleeding?

  Pieces of memory stitched together with the glacial intensity of falling snow.

  There were others. It had been dark.

  Suddenly the night’s events came back in a rush. The flapping wings. The horrific piercing calls. The terrible shouts and sounds of death. The oppressive weight of inky blackness.

  What had happened? Was anyone still alive? Where was Aeden?

  I was tempted to shout. I wanted to scream and be found. I wanted to hear another person’s voice. But I didn’t shout. Instead, I waited for my head to clear.

  I remained silent. I strained my ears. I listened for movement. For signs of life.

  Nothing.

  There was only stillness. Silence ruled the morning hour, and she was cold.

  As my headache dissipated, another discomfort rose to the surface. The rope bit into my hip. I attempted to move, and I slipped downward an inch, ever closer to the rocky gloom below.

  My heart stopped as I held my breath. I peered into the stone pillars marking the hidden depths. Fear washed over me in a wave of anxiety.

  I took in a slow breath. I needed to get back to the bridge.

  I moved carefully and grabbed the rope. It felt so thin and brittle in my hands. How had it held me all this time? It was too thin for a solid grip. I struggled to pull myself up. I wasn’t strong enough.

  I cursed silently into the air.

  I felt the rope move. I glanced up as a passing cloud of mist obscured the bridge. The rope felt uncomfortably tight about my waist. It felt fragile.

  Vibrations passed through the rope, indicative of movement. What was happening?

  My mind felt fuzzy as I blinked away the encroaching darkness.

  Another tug. It cut at my hip. The dulled sensation of pain washed over my side.

  I closed my eyes for a second. When I reopened them, I was moving again. The rope slipped some. The knot about my waist was unraveling. My situation was tenuous, fleeting like an emaciated sparrow.

  I grasped the rope in my hand. It felt feeble.

  Another tug and now I could glimpse the edges of the bridge. I could hear the rope fraying. Each strand snapped with a resounding echo. It filled the air. My stomach dropped as fear lurched within. What if they returned? Leather wings and death.

  More strands came loose. The bridge appeared closer. My heart pumped heavily as I gripped the rope tightly. I looked down at my waist. The knot was almost undone.

  I wanted to shout for the person pulling, to stop. I wanted to retie the knot, but there wasn’t enough rope left. There was too much tension in it.

  The final pull hefted me closer. My fingertips were within reach. It was still too far. Strands frayed and broke. The rope became sparse, like the final hints of snow under a glaring sun. I gripped what rope was left. I squeezed with all my strength. The knot at my waist fell away like Hearvest leaves.

  A sinking sensation filled me with dread. My body felt like a leaden weight in the wind. The thin rope cut at my hands, and I slipped.

  Through the mists reached down a hand. It was strong and fast. It gripped at my arm like a vice.

  I was pulled up, in one smooth motion. Again, the damsel in distress.

  Upon the bridge I looked up, to see my hero. It was Aeden. My heart sang and sank. It leapt for joy and cried out in dismay.

  He leaned forward and whispered into my ear, “We’re almost there,” he huffed, “if you’re done hanging around, we need to move.”

  I wanted to laugh. Not from his lame attempt at humor, but from the situation. From being alive. I stifled the laughter and felt tears well against my vision.

  So many emotions.

  I hid my pain. I stemmed the flow of despair. I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to be saved. I could save myself. I could be the hero as much as Aeden could. He may have saved me, but I vowed, that next time, I’d be the one saving him.

  I didn’t owe anyone anything.

  I was my own woman. I was strong. I was scared. I was brave. I was overcome with emotion.

  Chapter 69

  “At times, survival is the greatest beacon of hope.” Caliph Rajah of Sha’ril

  The mists parted and gave way to glorious rays of sunlight. The amber light fell upon stone formations and pockets of plant life. It bathed the remainder of our group in warmth and hope. It washed over us in a protective wave of golden bliss.

  Before us, the final bridge ended and a set of stairs spiraled out of view. The stairs had been carved into the stone itself. They wrapped about a stone pillar capped by a temple. Tiered roofs of green and columns of red, marked the sacred site in reverent tones of awe.

  My headache faded from awareness as I looked at each member of the group. We had started off ignorant and unafraid. We were like children before the gauntlet of life. Yet, here we stood, battered, beaten, but alive. More alive than I’d felt since that Vintas night when Gemynd had burned.

  Adel smiled. A bandage obscured his right hand, where he’ been cut to the bone. He couldn’t open his fist without assistance. Yet, he seemed relieved to see the stone steps.

  Sakhira was covered in others blood. He’d assisted anyway he knew how. He’d helped wrap bandages. He had shared his food and his water
.

  Caine was silent, like a broken toy. A cut marked his face, and there was a gash upon his back. He didn’t complain. He didn’t speak. Instead, he looked weak. He looked sad. A pathetic shell of his former self.

  Aeden stood strong, like a pillar of strength. Upon his shoulder was Oria. He held her despite his own wounds. She mumbled softly to herself, an echoing call of a flightless bird. She’d lost much blood, and looked pale in the face, gaunt, and frail.

  It was the absence of Janto and Kallon that left a void within our hearts and within the group. It besmirched the golden sunlight. It mocked the splendor that was the Fold.

  We climbed the stairs with hope and trepidation. We climbed toward our singular goal in silence.

  Chapter 70

  “Life is but a journey with no true destination.” Emperor Suda - Savikko

  Peter looked up. Crimson columns, painted stone walls, and faded green roofs dominated his vision. A single set of closed doors barred the way. It was their final hurdle to gain access to the Temple of the Sages of Umbra.

  Peter and Thea had descended the ten thousand steps of Mystes Mountain, passing the Bridge of Antiquity and Cascading Falls where a thousand dancing rainbows vied for their attention.

  They had paused before the Lufian River, waiting for the full moon to grace the lands. Its threadbare light made safe the razor grass of the Aria Plains. With their ears plugged, they had waded through the folded razor grass until they had come upon the Tree of Forgotten Children. There, dancing orbs of light flitted about in a suicidal dance of enchantment. Thea had silenced the tree and stopped the dancing lights, inadvertently affecting Peter with unbound principles of the arkein.

  The Aria Plains had given way to the Gardens of Sorrow. Blindfolded, they had walked past unimaginable beauty. Sculptures of such purity as to drive one insane. Beyond the gardens was silence. They hadn’t uttered a solitary whisper as they moved like ghosts through the Quietus Pillars.

  Deaf, blind, and mute.

  It had been like the Templas Triangle, Karaka the blind king, Suda the deaf king, and Tessier the mute general.

  What had Bellas been trying to convey?

  Peter’s mind had been consumed with thoughts and questions. It burned with the desire to know what Thea had heard. What the sages were like. What they had said.

  “Are you ready,” Thea turned, studying Peter.

  Peter remained still. His thoughts slowed and his eyes focused on the door before him. So much had happened. Was he ready? He felt like he was missing something.

  Peter rubbed absentmindedly at his head. Thea frowned.

  “What did they say to you and Aeden?” he asked.

  His voice was wrapped in layers of curiosity. Peter hoped her answer would help him understand what came next. He hoped her words would calm the brewing headache pounding within his skull.

  Thea nodded slowly and turned away from the doorway.

  “Very well,” she said, moving a strand of hair from her face.

  She gazed out into the parting mists. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “They told me three things,” she looked toward the rocky pillars in the distance, “When time stands still, and all seems lost, take what is given and hide it, away from prying eyes, away from the Syrinx. The other one told me: Never forget your faith, for life beyond death is as real as the setting sun.”

  Thea suddenly stopped, failing to relay the third message. Her face was serious. Her posture momentarily soft. She took in a slow breath as if gathering her thoughts and stuffing them back into a hidden box.

  “As for Aeden,” Thea smiled, skipping her last message, keeping it secret, “I hid and overheard only this: …you must uncover the secrets of the Syrinx.”

  Peter’s brow furrowed. He waited for Thea to continue. She did not.

  “What’s that mean?”

  Thea shook her head.

  Peter smiled. For some reason he felt better.

  “Are you ready?” she asked again.

  Peter nodded. He turned to face the entryway, smoothing out his shirt. He took in a breath and waited. Thea knocked on the wooden doors. A long moment of silence stretched thin between them before the doors opened.

  PART FOUR

  Dimutia Bound

  Chapter 71

  “History is but a story of violent acts, written by the victors.” Herlewin’s Letters of Apology

  A solitary ship split the expanse of the Imperium Gulf. Its bow parted the sea like an angry spirit as white tufts of water spit upon its keel. An easterly breeze hinted at a faraway land and kissed its sails. The wind whispered of secrets lost before the weight of antiquity. It carried the salt and it held the morning.

  A lone man stood upon the foredeck of the caravel. His keen eyes were upon the horizon, discerning that singular point where the sky met the ocean. He watched the soft morning light of a rising sun spill warmth across the heavens. The light beckoned and it cajoled. It sang a song of mystery and of adventure. It played upon the shapeless waters, reflected by a million facets of restless agitation.

  It did not, however, show a falcon. The discrete breadth of soaring wings, had yet to return.

  As for the man, known by most as the annalist, waited for the falcon’s return. He waited for a response to his message. A hand rested on the ship’s railing. The wood was cool and smooth. He smiled a thin smile as he gazed toward the unknown.

  For those schooled in the science of perception and human muses, they would have noticed the tightness about the annalist’s mouth. A master observer would have discerned the hard look about the annalist’s eyes. They would have taken note of his stance, confident upon the rolling seas.

  But there was no observer, no one to see the annalist ponder the fate of humanity.

  Although not alone aboard the caravel, the annalist occupied a different domain. The crew of the Schism was busy. They had no time to watch the annalist as he thought his thoughts. Instead, they prepared for the eventual meeting off the shores of the jungle continent of Dimutia.

  Dimutia itself, was a continent untamed by the civilizing reach of the Imperium. A land feared and seldom sought. A land only partially conquered by the Amevi. A group themselves, as wild as the landmass itself.

  The annalist’s eyes narrowed as he felt the tension of the crew. He took in a slow breath of salty air. It felt clean in his lungs, untarnished by the wrath of forgotten gods.

  The feeling faded as his burdens reasserted themselves. He was reminded of his task. His purpose was singular. Find the Kan Savasci and save Verold.

  Yet, his mission was anything but linear.

  It had taken him from the Red City of Bodig to the Shrouded Mountains. It was upon those snow-laden slopes that he’d lost a thousand Bodigan Soldiers at Tineman’s Pass. He’d visited the destruction of S’Vothe, its melted ruins were a precursor of what was to come. He’d met the Witches of Agathon. He’d traveled from Sawol to Berkshire to Old Trenton to Gemynd and Petra’s Landing. He’d dealt with seedy merchants and pirates in the White City. He had dealt with Caliph Jal Isa Sha’ril as he peeled back the layers of Aeden’s path. He’d followed the trail to Alina Cynesige, the former First Archduchess of Bodig and Holder of Keys, through Godsend’s Pass and to the Monastery of the Cave. From there he went to Water’s Gate and the Isle of Galdor and then into the Fold itself.

  Yet, for all this travel. For all his inquiries and all his discoveries, he felt no closer to finding the man himself. The Kan Savasci was elusive like the distant touch of a forgotten love or the hidden fragments of lost history.

  The annalist closed his eyes and let the thoughts drift from his mind. For a moment he was at peace. He opened his eyes and stared across the expanse of water. He took in the vast sky and faint clouds. He breathed in the morning air and felt the rays of the sun upon his face.

  Slowly, the siren song of duty and death, whispered at his ear. It spoke of his unfinished commitment, his moral obligation to the realms of men. It hinted at
the war to come.

  He glanced down and noticed the journal clutched in his hand. He’d almost forgotten it was there. It’s leather bind felt cool and comforting. The words within were anything but. They spoke of Aeden’s return to the Tower of the Arkein. They spoke of his departure from the Fold. They spoke of loss and power. They spoke of the uncovering of the Dup Shimati.

  The annalist knew that he was getting close. He could smell a violent story waiting to be told. Those gifted with the Sight knew that violent acts stained the world.

  He opened the book and read, remembering Aeden’s return to the Tower of the Arkein from the Temple of the Sages of Umbra. He remembered Aeden’s departure for Dimutia.

  Chapter 72

  “Home is hot soup in the belly.” Saying of the Gemynd

  A cold haze had settled its weight over the village of Andir. It was stark and grey and unfeeling. It hid the town’s spires and massive towers. It capped Mystes Mountain and it warned of things to come.

  A small group of students struggled up the final portion of the ten thousand steps under the Vintas gloom. They trudged through fresh snow and paused before the bridge, spanning the narrow moat surrounding the walled village of Andir. Thin wafers of ice had formed at the edges of the moat, dully reflecting the diffuse morning light.

  “Why are the gates closed?” Adel asked with a hint of worry.

  “It’s Vintas,” Garit responded, “they close the gates to keep out the wind.”

  Thea didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she glanced back, her gaze pausing ever so slightly on Aeden and Oria. She frowned before turning and making her way carefully over the bridge, watching for frozen bits of ground.

  Aeden watched as Thea crossed. Her displeasure was clear. It was evident in her expression, her posture, even the way she walked. She didn’t like how much time Aeden had been spending with Oria. Thea didn’t like that he’d played a role in Lord Bristol’s death.