Keys of Candor: The Red Deaths

by Casey Eanes

  Kull stood motionless as the stampede pushed against him, forcing him backward toward the tree line. The ground trembled and pulsed underfoot, not from the rocket attack, but by something else. Kull looked further down the rail line, expecting to see another supply vehicle, a medical convoy, anything that could help. He realized there was nothing coming down the line when another blast thundered, causing his stomach to somersault inside of him. A fiery explosion sent the metal service car Grift had stood on tumbling off the rails and into the town square. The dismantled car flung shards of metal and glass into the streets until it smashed into the front of Arthur Ewing’s general store.

  Ewing. Gods, no. Mom. Kull’s body filled with adrenaline as he sprinted across the courtyards of Cotswold toward his house. He prayed that he had enough time to get to his mother. The town was emptying as crowds of screaming people ran in all directions, trying to find cover from the incoming inferno. In the din, Kull sprinted against the masses trying to get back to his mother.

  His heart hammered as he burst through the door. Inside he saw Ewing, carrying her in his arms. Ewing screamed at him, his eyes like fire, “What are you doing here, lad? Run! I’ve got her!”

  In a panic, Kull checked to see that it was her. Yes. His mother’s vacant eyes looked up at the sky as Ewing and Kull bounded for the fields toward the forest. Kull heard another explosion and turned back.

  The attackers finally revealed themselves. There were nearly thirty Grogan rooks swarming in from the valley pass, following the railcar’s path. Their black engines were branded with the blood-red banner of the Groganlands; a lion and wolf locked in battle. The death machines flew toward them, gliding over the rocks and dips that littered the valley. The shells rained down on Cotswold, sending shrapnel everywhere. Charred, black craters began to replace buildings and people as the rooks’ fiery mortars carpet-bombed the town, leveling everything before them. Kull ran with the others toward the tree line, a surge of panic wanting to set in.

  He did his best to check his fears. Calm down. Keep your wits about you. Use your head.

  Grift’s teachings found him there in the war zone that was once his hometown. Kull realized that he and all of Cotswold had been unprepared for this assault. Why would the Grogans send such a large force to this little town? What do they want with us? Amidst the questions and panic, Grift’s consistent reminder throbbed in Kull’s mind. Always be prepared. He sprinted with Ewing and his mother away from the Grogan forces and caught sight of his father leading troops back towards the fray. Grift opened fire and bellowed commands at his men as they charged the incoming rooks. His shot struck one of the drivers, quick and accurate, sending the machine careening off course, colliding with two others. The mass of twisted, flaming metal smashed into a muddy bank. Grift’s shot emboldened his second in command, Tash Brinkley, to charge forward, firing at the incoming swarm as they continued to crest the hills like an army of ants. He spewed bullets into the valley, screaming curses at the Grogan pilots.

  “Tash, fall back. Fall back in line!” Grift’s voice cracked as he screamed for him to return to his position, but his cries fell on deaf ears. “Tash, now, fall back NOW!”

  Tash’s surge quickly ended as a rook unleashed a fiery harpoon, piercing and pinning his motionless body to the ground. They continued to fire rockets toward the fleeing crowd. An explosion sent Kull flying backward, and he crashed into a small gulley. Shaken, he reached for his arm, realizing he caught shrapnel in his left shoulder. Excruciating pain seared down his left arm and up his neck as Kull tried to make sure his arm still worked. A warm gush of blood dripped from his fingertips, mixing with the muddy ground below him. His ears were ringing, muffling the screams, the explosions, and the gunfire together into one encompassing buzz. His eyes were fuzzy as he tried to focus. The pain pulled at Kull like an anchor as he fought simply to stand, his body trying to hold him to the ground. Am I dying? I can’t move… I just want to lie down.

  “Get up, Kull.” Grift’s voice somehow penetrated through the fog of Kull’s mind and his ringing ears.

  He looked up and saw his father. His shoulder screamed as Grift stood him up on his feet, pulling him by his injured arm. Nausea washed over him like a tidal wave, and he tried not to pass out. He could hardly lift his eyes to find where to run next. Instead, he scanned the bloodstained ground, examining the old, muddy hillside as it was washed over with fresh crimson puddles. Grift’s marching orders brought him back to reality.

  “RUN, Kull! Get to the woods! Follow Ewing for Aleph’s sake!”

  Kull’s legs felt as if they were rooted to the ground, but he turned and ran as fast as he could. Ewing was still running ahead, holding his mother. Good, he thought. They are still alive.

  “GO, KULL!” He heard Grift scream amidst the ringing ribbons of bullet spray and echoing explosions.

  The forest was half a mile away from Cotswold, and Kull was close to reaching its safety. With each labored stride, his shoulder ached and stung with newfound agony. He ran with his friends and his neighbors. Everyone was running, jumping over those who were already dead, whose bodies were charred into contorted, disfigured shapes. No one tried to recover the fallen. Instead, they left them lying, smoking, in the ravines as every last survivor ran to save themselves. Kull sprinted with a reckless energy as shock wore down and gave way to adrenaline, keeping his eyes pinned on Ewing and his mother ahead.

  I’m almost there now. Just a little further. Dad is right behind. Just keep running.

  The tree line was only fifty feet away. He turned around to try to see his father but all he could focus on was Cotswold engulfed in flames and mobs of people still barreling toward the forest. He peered through the crowd to see his father standing bravely, facing the enemy. He ordered what was left of his small platoon of soldiers to form a front, barring the way of the oncoming rooks.

  Kull could hear Grift’s voice barking orders to his men. “Find cover and stand your ground. Don’t let them through!”

  Holding their line, the soldiers hit the ground, sniping the rooks from behind what cover they could find in the field. Several of their shots hit their mark, causing the hovercrafts to careen to the ground enveloped in fire. Grift ran alongside his men, encouraging them as he lobbed grenades at the Grogan forces. Their forces were thinning them out, and Kull counted as Grift’s men slowly took down ten rooks. Grift and his men were taking back ground and forcing the rooks back into the burning streets of the ruined town. With every step the platoon forced the black machines back, giving the last of the fleeing refugees valuable time to escape.

  When Kull finally reached the edge of the forest he crashed through layers of low-lying brush trying to hide. He could hear other townspeople pushing through the woods, snapping branches and panting as they fled. They were like a panicked herd of deer fleeing a predator that caught them by surprise. Kull’s heart sank as he heard the screams. Newly orphaned children called for their lost parents as they scrambled through the thickets. The wails of mothers that lost their children were a haunting sound that was impossible for Kull to comprehend. The cover of the trees may have protected Kull from the rooks, but it offered no protection from the nightmare that was setting in around him. He plunged himself through the masses looking for Ewing and his mother, but his injury stopped him.

  Exhausted, he slid beneath the thick canopy and lay as flat against the ground as he could. His shoulder pulsed uncontrollably, spilling his blood out onto the ground. With conscious effort he laid against it, putting pressure on the wound. He had forgotten his shoulder in his mad scramble for cover, and his side was soaked with wet, hot blood. He peered out from his hiding place to survey the battle. Grift and the few remaining men had been pushed back out of Cotswold and were making every effort possible to keep the rooks from getting any closer to the woods. The small army was exposed from multiple angles as they fired from behind a crumbling retaining wall. Each fiery missile whittled down the wall, spraying pieces of brick and mortar
in every direction.

  Kull watched his father’s gun either jam or run out of bullets. Kull cursed and prayed all in the same breath.

  “Fall back!” Grift screamed.

  Grift reached down and picked up a pistol from a fallen comrade. A large, black rook broke ranks from the phalanx and charged straight for the wall. It burst through the feeble barrier and skidded across the earth, turning its guns on the remaining soldiers. Grift stood up and unloaded the pistol on the war machine in a last ditch effort to distract the craft. His few surviving men began running to the forest. Grift’s shots ricocheted off the craft’s advanced armor. In desperation, he lobbed one last grenade in the direction of the nearest enemy vehicle.

  An electric burst erupted from the rook, and Kull saw the shiny tazernet shoot out, expand, and surround his dad. It sent Grift’s body into convulsions as he fell flat on his face writhing in an electric torrent of pain.

  “No!” Kull tried to get to his feet to run to his father’s side, but was quickly pulled down from behind.

  “Let me go!” Kull screamed.

  “Stay down, boy. They will kill you too,” Ewing whispered. Ewing had finally found Kull. His large hands held Kull’s shoulders as he tried to shake free, but the loss of blood and shock of the explosions left Kull too weak to escape Ewing’s strong hold.

  “Stay down, Kull. You need to live to fight another day.”

  His eyes never broke from his father as he lay shaking uncontrollably on the ground. He waited for the final blow from the rook hovering over Grift’s shivering body, but instead it lowered to the ground and the small cockpit shield swung up. The driver, clad in black body armor and a dark helmet, stepped out onto the ground and walked toward Grift. Two more rooks arrived, and the drivers quickly dismounted in unison.

  The first pointed toward Grift as the other two swooped down, kicking at him, sending blows to his ribs and head.

  Kull turned away, unable to watch. He could hear his father moan as the first Grogan called off the two larger grunts. The leader unstrapped his helmet and threw it to the ground. When Kull looked back, his eyes widened with fear.

  It was a girl. A river of red hair fell down around the girl’s shoulders as she dropped her helmet to the side and leaned over Grift. Grabbing him by his hair, she lifted his head to whisper in his ear before slamming him back down to the ground.

  “Let me go!” Kull screamed through clenched teeth. “Let me go fight! I will kill her!” He threw himself against Ewing. Kull took in the face of the girl, marking it in his memory.

  Behind him, Kull heard something he had not heard in months. There, leaning against a tree stood his mother, her eyes fully aware of what was happening. She cried out, “Grift! No!” She took one step forward only to fall on the ground, her face a horrid tapestry wracked with fear and misery. Kull could not stand the sight of his mother wailing on the ground. His mind could not comprehend what was happening, and he bucked against Ewing with a mad fury. Ewing did not relent and pinned him down, restraining Kull’s rage.

  “Kull. You can’t fight them. There is nothing we can do.”

  The larger of the two Grogans threw Grift over his shoulder and flung him into the back compartment of the girl’s rook. She hopped back into her machine and yelled out to the others to fall out. Then, as swiftly as the rooks arrived, raining fire and fear, they were gone.

  They found what they came for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The city of Vale stood silent. All commerce, all speaking, and all feasting were at a halt. Shops were boarded and closed, and the beautiful cobblestone streets and squares were empty. Wreaths of purple crowns of thistle hung on every door. Gray candles burned in every window, flickering ghosts keeping their night long vigil, sending pinpricks of light from the lowest hovel to the highest towers. An uncanny silence hung over Lotte’s capital city. The city echoed with a new, empty void that begged to be whole again. The silence dissipated at dawn, swallowed by a deep, rolling chant that swelled out into the city streets, echoing off the marble promenades. The groaning hymn shattered the silence of the gray, mournful morning announcing the commencement of the long-awaited royal funeral procession. All the people of the city left their homes and stood united as a line of monks marched solemnly towards the king’s hall. Each man and woman hoped to catch a glimpse of the king’s gilded casket. Camden’s body had been prepared, washed, and presented to the people, waiting in state for six months, fulfilling the time of mourning customary for the royals in Lotte. The mourning would soon be over, and now it was time for Camden to be laid to rest, according to the traditions of the Alephian monks.

  The monks were clad in only light gray robes despite the frigid morning breeze. Their faces were painted with ceremonial ash. They led the funeral procession, singing low, doling chants that were almost inaudible. To the people of Vale, the holy men were strangers, otherworldly and terrifying. They rarely visited their city in such numbers, and only left their sacred forest of Preost during times of great upheaval or loss. They were not a welcome sight, and their solemn appearance did little to make their arrival a warm one. The Panderean royal court marched behind the congregation of monks, dressed in long, heavy fur robes. Everyone’s faces were downcast and somber. The swell of the procession marched dutifully, rising to climb the smooth, marble steps leading up to the entrance of the king’s hall. The surrounding throng of people mourned and sobbed. Representatives had come from the Darian family who ruled the coastal Realm of Elum. They, along with the monks from Preost, came with their deepest condolences, offering undying support to the royal family of Lotte. They walked proudly with their Panderean counterparts to the high hall, dressed in fine shimmering fabrics of bright blue and deep dark purple, colors that few in Lotte had ever seen worn, colors that ebbed and flowed in the sunlight, glistening like the ocean tide. Many children pointed at their clothes before being scolded by their parents for showing disrespect. The Grogans and the Rihts were notably absent from the procession, but their absence was an expected one. Their hands were stained with the king’s blood.

  Behind the parade of monks and government officials was a single casket made of solid ironwood. The casket was carried by Seam Panderean and his loyal troop of guardsmen. Seam’s light brown hair was pulled back and tied behind his head with thin golden twine. His blue and gray robes hung over his tall frame as he shouldered the casket. The men climbed, slowly bearing the heavy burden, careful with their footing and pace. For Seam, the thought of carrying the remains of his murdered father up to what would soon become his hall, his throne, was tinged with a twisted and brutal irony. As they made their way up to the summit, the citizens of Vale threw immaculate wreaths onto the street and held their hands out to Seam, hailing him. Many were sobbing and wailing as the casket of King Camden passed them. Seam’s mother, Queen Aleigha, followed closely behind the troop of men. She was a beautiful woman whose smile was famous throughout Lotte, but it had long disappeared. Her bowed head was covered with a black veil that shielded her face from the onlookers. The veil stood in stark contrast to the flowing ivory grown she wore, draped from her thin shoulders.

  The men and women of Vale called out to their queen and soon-to-be king as they passed; each man and woman attempted to offer words of encouragement and love.

  An older man’s voice crackled through the crowd, “You will make your father proud, King Seam! All Hail King Seam!” Several other onlookers followed his lead and began chanting as well. Others continued to cry out and moan as their beloved King Camden passed by, too absorbed by their Realm’s loss to think of hailing their future king.

  A wrinkled, middle-aged woman laid a wreath at the Queen’s feet and softly encouraged her. “Be strong, my queen! Your son will carry us on his shoulders just as he carries his father now! Your husband was great, but King Seam will be our savior from this war.”

  The weight of the casket wore down the young royal as he marched; digging deeper into his shoulder with each step, but i
t was of no consequence. The pit of Seam’s stomach was coiled in a knot, and it shifted violently with each commoner’s cry. Despite the pain and the bile that was trying to climb up his throat, he could not deny that a small spark of ecstasy jolted inside of him each time he overheard someone call him “King Seam.”

  The casket was placed high above the promenade, where the entire of city of Vale watched with anxious and nervous energy. The air was alive with electricity, and the crowd mumbled as the long train of mourners finally ended their arduous procession. Hover-cameras streaked across the sky like mechanical birds, careening themselves to get the best shot of the momentous occasion, beaming their images across all the Realms. Seam took his place, kneeling before the casket, where a hulking, ebony-skinned monk stood.

  It was the Mastermonk and head of the Alephian Order, known as Wael. Rarely did he venture out from the confines of Preost’s forests, but now he stood before Seam like a tall, lonely mountain. He spread out his long arms, and in an instant the murmurs of the crowd went silent. The Questioning was about to begin, and all of Lotte stood transfixed in awe. The Mastermonk rang out, his deep and thunderous voice booming across the crowd. A chant of an unknown language danced out from the man’s mouth, each syllable unintelligible and melodious, when suddenly and unexpectedly it fell into something Seam understood: