by Greg Hanks
“We need to put them in coffins,” Balien said.
Naon looked shocked, disbelieving.
“And we need to leave Mengsha’ron. Forever.”
Naon could not speak. Throat too dry. Eyes too red. She watched him move with a rigid swiftness as he attended to his mother first, and then to the others. She fell to her knees and gripped the dirt floor, overcome with a weight of conflicting emotions, and, most debilitating of all, none of them contrition.
——————
Four Years Later
“Chorga!” screamed a tall Khor’Zon female into the squinting face of her teenage subordinate. In her hand, a whip with the consistency of electric ice, emitting a dull buzz. She ratcheted her arm in an upward snap, causing the whip to strike the teenager’s exposed skin. A pink streak of seared flesh appeared on his chest.
The teenager squirmed but couldn’t move otherwise; he held a giant pot above his head with shaky, toned arms. The pot teetered a little as he regained his composure. He inhaled and set his face, but there were tears of frustrated pain forming in the corners of his eyes.
They stood on the rooftop level of Yexai, the immense, triangle-shaped military training tower in Oro’nath. One could see far beyond the limits of the capital, plains of golden wheat and glinting rivers in front of a backdrop of white-capped mountains hazed in baby blue. Plinths and columns and concourses of white marble arrayed the roof, mixed with pastel green plants in long boxes, water streaming down the sides of pillars and bubbling happily into small pools, and pearl statues depicting Khor’Zon soldiers in battle gear.
The Khor’Zon female with the whip wore a magnificent golden chestpiece with blue lights knifing through its seams, and two, thin white ribbon capes that danced lazily in the afternoon breeze. Her curved crownbone was sheathed in a golden metal sleeve with intricate carvings like vines, coming to a point. She had a lined face but could not have been older than 120. Yellow pupils like a desert sun. Blood red lipstick. She whipped the teenager again, creating an “x” on his chest.
“Vethre is on a path today,” whispered a masculine, stout Khor’Zon next to Naon. “What I would not give to fight her one-on-one. I would finally have a challenge.”
Naon turned and gave him a wry smile. They stood twenty feet away with the rest of their year, watching in silence.
“Should not have asked to skip interrogations today,” whispered another soldier nearby.
“Hell, no one wants to do them, but I would ever say it,” a Khor’Zon whispered behind Naon.
“I am bad enough at them as it is,” the other added, “and to have her be the interrogator . . .” He shuddered at the thought.
The stout Khor’Zon standing next to Naon stretched, exhaling loud enough that everyone close could hear. A cocky stance, taller than most in their year, standing with hands on his hips, as if waiting for his turn to run the gauntlet. No crownbone, only three thick shelves of skull fanning backward down his head. He leaned into Naon’s space again, his red pupils burning brightly as he narrowed his eyes.
“Now is your chance,” he whispered to her.
She tilted her head in an overwhelmingly knowing look.
“She would be too stunned to whip you,” he added, shrugging.
“Perhaps we could even leave arm in arm,” Naon said, waiting for his quiet snicker. “Sometimes I wish my parents were dead, too, Seen’ai.”
Seen’ai smiled viciously. “No, you do not. It is not as thrilling as you would think. Be grateful your mother fills such a powerful position. Being somber and vulnerable is not a way to live, trust me.”
“I like when you are somber and vulnerable,” Naon said.
“That is my brother’s territory,” Seen’ai said, bored. “But you ditched him for me, so I am not sure what you mean.”
“I did not ditch him,” Naon argued.
“You left him with a broken heart. You ditched him.”
Naon frowned. “You do not know what happened.”
“Look, I do not talk to Balien any more than you do now, but I know what I know.”
“Maybe we should just forget it.”
“Maybe we should.”
Another Khor’Zon emerged from a staircase embedded in the roof. A slender, stringy male wearing woven black robes and a veil over his face made of tiny chains that swayed when he walked. Beneath the veil, a pale, petulant face in a permanent sneer. He walked swiftly toward Vethre and the teenager, hands linked behind his back, a gait of prestige and haughtiness.
“Quar’on—” he said loudly, so the entire year could hear; the students reacted just as he had planned, all of them slowly approaching. Vethre turned on her heel at the shocking sound of the raspy, rattling voice. “—has commanded that I observe this training session today. I am Ghare, one of our Lord’s Mouth-elects.”
Vethre huffed through her nostrils, the whip still buzzing in her hand. She cracked the whip once and approached the veiled Khor’Zon.
“Ah,” she said, a seductive drawl like a succubus. “Quar’on’s newest Mouth-in-training. How pathetic you all look with your macabre veils of chain. Do the other Mouth-elects pick on you? The scrawniest of the lot? Shall I make you spar in front of my class? To humiliate you? To show you that only the actual Mouth or the Lord of Madness himself may approach me unannounced?”
“Oh, this is good,” Seen’ai said to Naon through his teeth. “Very Vethre of her.”
The Mouth-in-training stood silent, hands still behind his back. “Unfortunately, the Mouth is dead, as you know. For the Lord to choose his next Mouth, we must be subject to these kinds of—”
Vethre approached violently. Though they stood the same height, she towered over him.
“I could devour you right now,” she said. “How is our Lord’s Mouth supposed to incite fear and dominion when he cannot leave the slightest imprint?”
The Mouth-in-training stared at her, then paced sideways, toward the group of soldiers. He turned back to her. “Oftentimes it is not pure strength that can command the multitudes. Quar’on needs intellect above all. He already has the brawn—you, and your Yexai forces. No, what Quar’on needs is pragmatic tacticians who know how to destroy their foes with a twist of their voice. Like so.” He turned to the crowd of students. “Naon.”
Seen’ai turned to her, appalled. The masses slightly dispersed, leaving an open path to Naon, who looked apprehensive.
Vethre had become another statue on the roof. Her absent look of horror like a roughly hewn sculpture.
“What did you say?” Vethre asked quietly.
“Oh, you do not know?” asked Ghare. “You daughter is standing right there, Vethre. The daughter you abandoned so long ago in Mengsha’ron.”
Vethre’s eyes wavered, but she remained still.
Naon stood in silent awe. She did not realize there had been movement to her right.
Seen’ai stepped into the open space, looking at Ghare.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “This is a private matter between family. You cannot—”
“Silence!” screamed Vethre. She stepped forward, looking down the gullet at her daughter.
“A soldier in Yexai for nearly four years,” continued Ghare, “and you had no idea she existed.”
Naon folded her arms. Her body felt hot. Everyone was either looking at her or Vethre.
“I-Is it true, then?” Vethre whispered, barely audible above the bubbling fountains and her own electric whip. “N-Naon? You . . . you have been here for four years . . .”
“Always touching to see the reunion of estranged family,” Ghare remarked. “Go on, Naon. Tell your mother how much you missed her. I am sure you two have so much to discuss.”
Before Naon could conjure a phrase, Vethre turned to Ghare.
“What does he want?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Ghare said, his raspy voice denoting false seriousness.
“What does he want, filth?”
“Ah . . .” Ghare stepped to V
ethre. “Quar’on usually has these displays occur when he needs something, does he not? Well, today is just a little nudge. Let me make one thing clear: Quar’on did not make a mistake in choosing his Mouth-elects. I am here in his stead. Your vulgarity toward me is vulgarity toward him. You must learn to fear intellect, because it is what will eventually kill you if you are not careful. Intellect led me to discover your little secret, not physical strength.”
The crowd of students were shock still. Naon felt an immense pressure in her chest. Seen’ai was looking at her.
Vethre raised her arm as if she were going to strike, but instead the neon blue whip receded into the handle.
“Everyone back to your dormitories,” she growled. “Now.”
Ghare made a slight pivot, sad to see the display end; no audience for his humiliation party. He watched the group of people depart in whispers.
Naon hadn’t moved yet, and Seen’ai was hesitant.
“What will you do?” he asked, the clamor of moving bodies giving them a moment of privacy.
Feeling ignorant, uncertain, and fiery, she blurted: “Will you stay with me?”
Seen’ai nodded and turned back to look at Vethre and Ghare as the final students disappeared down the stairs.
A silent pause between the remaining four. Naon side-stepped Seen’ai and looked directly at her mother.
“Mother—”
“How could you abandon your own daughter?” Seen’ai exploded, stepping toward Vethre. “I lost my parents. They are dead. But you are still alive. You could have given Naon a life with parents. Why? Why did you leave her?”
Ghare was clearly smirking underneath his veil of chains. He and Naon met eyes for a split second.
Vethre’s face was turning a shade of purple. “You should know your place, delinquent. Did you forget who gave you a position in Yexai? I do not owe you any favors or need to explain myself to you. I am surprised to hear you speak to me like that. I still see that same twelve-year-old child, stuttering as I threatened to kill you. Still stuttering and blubbering like a child. Perhaps Yexai has done nothing for you?”
Seen’ai huffed, but Naon placed a hand on his arm. He whipped his head around, ready to offer up a heated explanation.
“Stop it,” Naon said. “This is my life, not yours.”
Seen’ai wrenched his arm away, his face looked fierce. “No! You do not know the half of what this woman has done. And not just to me.” He turned to look at Vethre, his eyes panning to Ghare as she smiled viciously.
“I already know about Vethre’s pedophiliac nature, Seen’ai of Mengsha’ron. She finds children like you, takes them into her care, abuses them, and lets them join Yexai.”
Seen’ai looked taken aback. Naon, stunned.
Vethre, however, was smiling. “As I said before, child, I do not need to explain myself to you.”
“And what about me?” Naon said, shattering the air with her hoarse voice.
“No, Naon, this chorga has abused her last child,” Seen’ai said, stomping toward Vethre.
“Seen’ai!” Naon yelped.
Vethre threw her hand forward. The whip shot from the handle and lashed around Seen’ai’s neck, yanking him to the floor. He struggled on the polished ground, but every time his hands reached for the whip, they were zapped away.
As Vethre walked forward, the whip automatically started receding into the handle, keeping the line taut.
“Stupid, petulant child,” she said, her yellow eyes glowing. “You know I like my soldiers to be brave and unwavering. Part of me is offended by your attitude toward me, but a part of—stop that!” She raised the handle, jerking the whip against his neck as he tried to free himself again. He squirmed and groaned but fell obediently limp. “That’s better. Now, as I was saying. The other part of me is . . . gracious.” Her eyes slowly raised to meet Naon’s. “You are protective of my daughter. It appears as though you may even be friends.” She lessened the tension on the whip slightly. “So I will forgive you for this horrific display of idiocy, and not throw you out of my house.” With a final strike of her wrist, she released the tension and the whip retracted back into the handle.
Seen’ai coughed and sputtered on the floor but managed to raise himself to his hands and knees.
“But what kind of leader would I be if I never meted punishment?” Vethre said and arced her arm forward; the whip lashed Seen’ai’s shoulder and back. Seen’ai fell into the floor face first.
“Stop!” Naon cried. “You punish my friend for trying to protect me? My friend who has been there for me when you could not?”
Vethre snapped her head to meet Naon’s eyes but said nothing.
“You find out your daughter is part of Yexai, standing right in front of you,” Naon continued, her eyes hot with new tears. “Yet I have to wait here for minutes watching you display your importance. Hearing about your disgusting habit of seducing children. Children. And you still have not said more than a sentence to me.”
Naon’s mother drained of color. It was like someone had slapped her with a coat of white paint.
Ghare beckoned Seen’ai. “Come, soldier. Let us give these two their moment.”
“I will not leave Naon with her,” Seen’ai growled.
“Come with me now or be expelled from this city forever.”
“Go, Seen’ai,” Naon said. “I am fine. Let me do this. You cannot forfeit Oro’nath.”
Seen’ai paused, wanting to fight back. He struggled to his feet and looked at Naon for final confirmation.
“Now!” Ghare yelled.
Seen’ai reluctantly skulked away, slapping away Ghare’s helping hand. They proceeded downstairs.
“Naon . . .” Vethre started.
“Just tell me why you left me, mother. Right now. Tell me and I will not bother you again.”
Vethre scoffed. “I . . . I am not the only one to blame for your situation.”
Naon’s brow scrunched. “That is your answer?”
“Your father had just as much say in this decision as I!”
“And who is my father? Oh, did you forget? I have had no idea who my parents are.”
“Naon, I love you.”
Naon grimaced. “No. I do not accept that. Worthless garbage.”
“Accept it? You do not have a choice!”
“Please tell me why I could not be your daughter here?”
Vethre’s face was ghost white now, yet her barbaric determination was still present, keeping Naon from feeling the satisfaction of her retorts.
“Your father and I decided to place you in the care of a trusted friend. That was the only reason. I was about to become the leader of Yexai. He was already the Sage of Oro’nath. We could not have a child to care for. We left you with the best Khor’Zon I know. Ardvos took care of you better than we ever could.” Naon was about to protest, tears streaming down her cheeks, but Vethre overpowered her. “No, I will not hear it. Your father and I made this decision with the utmost thought and preparation. I will not hear you try to guilt me into something I feel zero guilt about! Do I think about you daily? Perhaps not daily, but extremely often. Did I have people checking up on you? Of course. Did I know you would eventually find your way back to Oro’nath? You could not escape this place even if you wanted to. I am no mother, Naon. I am a soldier. And so are you. So I will continue to be your leader at Yexai. The best thing I can do for you is to prepare you for war.”
Naon stood, reverberating to the abrasiveness of Vethre’s voice. The words dissipated into the air. Naon’s mouth was open, unable to complete a solid thought.
“I . . . I am sorry you thought this might have gone differently,” Vethre said, placing the handle of the whip on her belt. “Perhaps Ardvos was not the best choice after all. I hope to see you again soon.”
Before Naon could utter another word, Vethre was descending the stairs. Naon stood atop Yexai for a long time, her mouth still open, her mind blank.
NEUTRALITE
Charcoal particl
es from an old drawing. Burnt parchment. Tombstones of ash. This was Beliveilles. Destroyed years past by the Khor’Zon-Calcitra war that had never stopped since. Whenever V’delle looked at the city, she thought she saw an old carcass of a stone animal. A spine of severed bricks and glass. A skull of clattering rafters and rivets. A body of grassy flesh turned gray from fallen detritus. Echoes of its inhabitants sometimes plagued her thoughts. Would a dead car sometimes honk? Could a building moan as if depressed? The scurry of mice or voles often reverberated across the valley. The city no longer chattel, only dust’s equal.
At dusk Beliveilles changed. A blackness so malevolent it altered a person’s chemistry at the flash of an emboldened shadow. Dust and ash and gray morphed to coal and encompassing void. Towers that made her eyes implode under the ominous pressure. Banks and valleys of sharp tints, each shelf nearly imperceptible from the last. Their only ally was a violet sky slowly losing its willpower.
Balien stood with V’delle and Rain’s ex-wife Rhapsi in the man-made concrete cave of the mine’s derelict entrance. Box steeped in pitch, the only light an orange glow from the sun’s last bursting vessel through a square window on a cast iron door.
Rhapsi wore a tight maroon uniform with a small poncho-like fabric hanging over her chest. Three belts wrapped her waist, all with hanging pouches and tools on leather bindings. A pistol to her thigh. Metal-plated boots. Head of bright red hair in a quick braid. Her sunken blue eyes and drooped lids made her look constantly bored or tired, but the moment her infectious smile took hold, her visage turned delightfully comfortable.
She handed V’delle a brand-new Chameleon cloak.
“I only have three left that are finished,” she told V’delle in a somber, dull-toned voice. “I mean, I know you’re just gonna ruin it anyways, but for my sanity, try to make it last a little longer. At least until we raid another Outpost.”
“It wasn’t my fault. Again.” V’delle donned the frock, her white hair popping through the hole like a piece of cotton candy. “And as always—thank you.”
