The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  “What do you mean, we?” Melek responded in a confused tone. “If you are trying to find Arstle, then I’ll not be going with you.”

  Kirian tucked the dirty shirt into his trousers and turned to face Melek.

  “Breakfast will be ready shortly. If you have the least desire to find one more of your people, be ready to leave in one hour. I am well behind in my own struggles, and I’ll not be traveling with someone who allows the past to haunt his present. Live now.” Kirian gently nodded at Melek and stalked from the room.

  The irony of Kirian’s words rang in Melek’s ears, pricking his memory.

  A younger Melek and Loken stood waiting near the heart of the Molston Hills. They had no clothing except loincloths fashioned from the hides of animals trapped with the skills learned in their homeland. They had arrived from different locations, but within one hour of one another. Loken looked as if he had stumbled through a thorn bush. Numerous long scrapes covered his chest and his legs were still trickling blood.

  Melek arrived shortly after his friend, but he had managed to take only one wound—a long scrape across his chest—in his trek through the wooded hills. Loken walked to a small clearing next to a winding stream, then waited and squatted on his heels. He eyed the wound, and in between laughs, he asked, “What happened there? Did a wolf get to nibble on the mighty Melek?”

  “No,” Melek replied sourly. “I stumbled into a squirrel’s nest. I scared the thing when I climbed into a tree to sleep. I nearly broke my neck when I hit the ground. It wasn’t ‘til the next morning I felt the scratch.”

  The vision of Melek’s story brought Loken to tears as he fell backward with uncontrollable laughter. After a few moments, Loken replied, “That looks like more than a scratch.”

  When Melek glanced down at the wound, Loken burst into riotous laughter which sounded deafening to Melek’s ears. The wound doesn’t look that bad, Melek thought.

  “I guess I hit a broken branch on the way down,” Melek muttered bitterly. He turned to face the opposite direction when the humiliating scene played in his mind. Gentle laugher from behind him flushed his cheeks red.

  “Fools!”

  The word tolled through the clearing for several moments. The sudden sound of the deep voice shocked both young men back to full awareness—something they had been taught to do for years prior to this final testing. Both young men, nearly naked and covered with bruises and cuts, turned their heads to the direction of the voice. Seeing a man seemingly appear out of nowhere at the edge of the woods held no surprise for the two students as they watched the older man shaking his head. His mouth and eyes held a grimace of disgust as he stalked soundlessly to them. Melek and Loken looked at one another from the corner of their eyes, waiting for the upbraiding from their Master.

  Within a moment, the Master stood next to the stream, knelt and cupped a hand into the water. After taking several drinks from the clear water, he sighed heavily. Loken sighed with impatience, quietly saying, “Master Arstle, you no longer have the right to call us—”

  “Quiet!” Arstle roared.

  In a blur of movement, he spun and kicked Loken across the jaw. The young man fell backward in a heap and lay groaning. Not a good idea to tell the Master what to do, Melek thought as he positioned himself in a defensive stance. Arstle leapt across the fallen student at Melek. He sidestepped as his Master aimed a kick at Melek’s midsection. Melek barely blocked the foot aside and watched the Master land on the balls of his toes. He spun nearly faster than Melek could follow.

  “Good,” the Master stated in a neutral tone. Coming from the Master, he may as well have been patting Melek on the back. Melek knew that without his years of rigorous training the Master’s strike would have killed him instantly.

  Melek waited for the attack to continue, but to his surprise his Master merely smiled and visibly relaxed his stance. “You’ve passed the test. I suppose your friend here will need to spend some more nights in the woods. Alone.”

  Arstle turned his vision toward his still-groaning student and waited patiently for Loken to recover. After a few moments Melek noticed a nearly-suppressed tinge of concern cross the Master’s normally-stony visage. Something is wrong, thought Melek, as he looked down at his friend. Nothing keeps Loken on the ground. The Master walked toward the fallen student to seemingly check his head for damage.

  “Here, now,” the Master said crossly, but with a hint of sympathy. “I did not strike you hard enough for all this nonsense.”

  As soon as the Master stood over Loken, the student swept his leg out in a vicious arc, catching Arstle’s legs. Surprise flashed across the man’s face as he struck the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Even in his state of shock, Arstle deflected Loken’s hand away from his throat and to the ground. The points of Loken’s outstretched fingers stopped when they struck the dirt. Silence momentarily fell upon the small clearing as the three men remained still and meditative, even Arstle. The sudden cry of a hawk floating lazily above the clearing brought the men back to the present moment.

  “Good,” breathed Arstle. Melek smiled and looked upward, watching the black-winged harrier searching about the ground for a meal.

  No meals here, Melek thought. Only men. The thought sparked an excitement in Melek he felt could never be suppressed. He looked down at his friend whose face must have mirrored Melek’s own. A smile had even worked itself across Arstle’s wrinkled face.

  “Welcome to the Olst.”

  The words echoed through Melek’s mind, as the plain room’s walls came back into focus. After he tossed the cover to the side, he positioned his legs over the side of the bed. The remembered excitement of that moment from many years ago washed over his being, and when Melek put his feet upon the wooden floor he suddenly felt dampness upon his cheeks. Testing his leg, Melek felt almost no pain. He stood and walked to the open door without limping. Well, at least I can travel without being a bother.

  Letting thoughts of the past linger in his mind to remind him of his duty, Melek made his way to the kitchen to find breakfast. He could not remember the last time he had actually eaten a full meal. Judging by the smells coming down the hallway, Melek believed he would not forget this meal any time soon. A feast lay upon the squat wooden table sitting near the center of the room. A still-steaming bowl of porridge, several small yellow-brown biscuits, three large links of sausage and a metal tankard of milk, beaded with condensation, waited for him. Shaking his head in amazement, Melek sat. He savored each scarfed-down bite and long draw.

  After finishing the meal, Melek walked back to his recovery room to gather his belongings. He scanned the room and realized not one thing in the room belonged to him. Even his daggers were not to be seen. Growling in consternation, Melek hastily paced outside the former clan leader’s home. Glancing to his right, Melek looked for his new companion, but found nothing within sight except the ruins of the small town with new graves between the fallen buildings.

  Without turning, Melek yelled out, “Kirian, where are you?”

  “Right here.” The response came from Melek’s left side. “Waiting for you to finish filling your stomach.” Turning quickly, Melek noticed the man leaning against the building’s wall, with his eyes closed. Before he could issue a complaint about the whereabouts of his gear, Melek noticed two packs sitting upon the ground next to Kirian. Both packs appeared to be full, and on top of the one closest to Melek lay a small pile of daggers. Close to the packs, Loken’s greatsword leaned against the wall.

  The scabbard plainly distinguished itself from a mundane sword of its type. The ornamental-style hilt seemed to be just that to an unpracticed eye. yet to see that sword come alive in a practiced user’s hands usually meant the death of those who underestimated its worth. The stylized symbol of a sun had been etched upon the end of the hilt. To Melek’s eyes, it had seemed to almost glow when it was unsheathed by Loken. He had never mentioned it to the man because he believed he had been imagining it. The guard swept o
ut from the top of the hilt in two solid lines of perfect steel. In all the years Loken had carried the leather scabbard, nothing seemed to affect its luster. An identical symbol of the sun had been etched into the top of the scabbard with wavy lines traveling its entire length.

  Peering from the sword to Kirian, Melek noticed that the man now watched him. Melek nodded in gratitude and murmured his thanks. He walked to the pack, grabbed the daggers lying atop it, then attached them to his belt. He strapped the greatsword to his back before placing the pack over the sword. He sighed. The realization of leaving his clan’s home for the last time marked his mind.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered to Kirian.

  Walking toward the sun, the two men moved past many graves and destroyed buildings. Keeping their eyes focused forward, neither man spoke while they slowly departed from the once-safe trading village. Kirian had mentioned during the long period of digging graves they would need to travel up the Whiterush River. Before his capture by the Olst, Kirian had been charged with a task. Melek had asked what exactly he was charged to do, and he stated only that it was something he must do.

  Not pressing the point then, Melek felt it was time to know where he was going. As they walked along the rock path, he asked again, “What do you need me for? If you are taking me along to search for your master, I believe I need to know what for.”

  With a half-grin Kirian looked askance at Melek. “You are not the type to be in the dark. I cannot tell you much because I do not know much myself. Arstle, who happened to be your Master, has the only knowledge about this ever-increasing threat to humanity.” He paused for a few moments, as if trying to find the correct words. “I believe your people called them Blighters.”

  Melek scoffed upon hearing the name. “Yes, you’re right, but they are nothing more than a myth.” Then, Melek suddenly realized Kirian spoke about his people as if they no longer existed. “Just stories to scare the little ones into minding their parents. Besides I’ll need those stories to scare my own children.” He spoke the words to himself, as if he was trying to convince himself that his people had not been decimated.

  Kirian stopped and stared at Melek for a long moment. A deep laugh erupted from Kirian’s lips, and in between laughs he forced out, “I think that is the first time I have heard you even make an attempt at humor.” Catching his breath, Kirian continued, “I wish that they were only stories, but I have seen the effect of a Blighter upon our world. I nearly died escaping from the clutches of one myself.”

  Melek did not respond to the startling revelation, but he pondered the man’s words. As he searched his memory, he could not make himself believe the man’s words held complete truth. Blighters had been pushed into the darkest recesses of the world by the Alterators, or so he had been told all his life. The most powerful of those creatures of darkness had been vanquished after the Great Dread War, a war began by a fortified tower spreading its contained evil, an event so far in the past that no one living probably knew more about the war, other than humanity had nearly been destroyed. Even the most recent northern war north of Molston reportedly had Blighters walking the fields of battle. Melek had heard rumors, but he had been far to the south during those times.

  Blighters had existed before that long-ago terrible war, but they had gained that name as the war progressed over the course of nearly twenty years. Melek had very little knowledge of the war, other than the Alterators had come out victorious despite heavy losses. He wracked his mind for any bit of information that could help him believe Kirian; he realized he did not really know exactly what the Blighters used against the world, except that it was a corrupted form of runic alteration.

  Breaking Melek’s train of thought, Kirian simply stated, “I need you to help me find my Master.”

  “How do you expect me to do that? I’ve not seen the man in nearly fifteen years. Before that war north of here carried him away” Melek replied. He did not bother hiding his growing frustration. “I’d not know the first place he’d be.”

  When Kirian stopped, Melek walked a few more paces before he realized his new companion was not beside him. The increasing frustration fogged his normally clear and perceptive mind. Clenching his jaw hard enough to bite a knife in two, Melek turned and saw a look of surprise and curiosity on Kirian’s face.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know?” Kirian asked without hesitation.

  “Know what!” Melek cried. The frustration flared into white-hot anger. It was all he could do to not knock the man upside the head.

  “Arstle failed in his greatest duty in not making you Aware.” Kirian paused but only for a breath after seeing Melek’s face darken with rage. Kirian stated in a solemn tone, “You are an Inheritor.”

  Instantly the anger dissipated. In its place, disbelief and a strange sense of hollowness emerged. Melek felt like a long-dead tree, once strong and resistant to almost anything, now rotten and ready to collapse.

  21 — Jasten’s Reach

  In the Ohnerben, a smirk lined Yabusan’s face until Jaken’s memories of the battle and an Originator unfolded. His first words struck away lingering doubts in Yabusan’s mind of Jaken’s claim.

  “Sergeant Holst! Attend!” The deep voice shot out across the battlefield line. Clearly the call beckoned and demanded follow-up. Jaken Holst sighed with thankfulness; his weariness washed away momentarily by the order.

  Jaken Holst turned his eyes from the ensuing enemy line of skirmishers, their light suits of chain mail and exposed twin shortswords glinted in Sol’s twilight. The skirmishers loped along the open plains trampling sacc in complete disregard of any future use. The Vespow flowed less than five miles behind them—Jaken made out the flow only by the flicker of Sol’s light on the waters. The Sa’un to the north flowed further away, nearly out of sight, yet the Sergeant could easily picture its narrower flow. The lights of Jasten would punctuate the western horizon this evening. Assuming he lived to see it, anyway.

  Jaken gritted his teeth, then offered his own reply, subservient only to his superior, “Yes, sir!”

  Sergeant Jaken trotted over the trampled grasses of the Plains of the Fallen behind his line of thirty-three soldiers. All had their eyes forward with short bows readied for his order to fire. None of his men, except the platoon’s Alterator, paid his loping strides any attention.

  Jast Four-fingers squinted into the dying light of the western horizon before giving Jaken a scornful glance. Just as Jaken passed Jast, the aging scriber spat, then said, “Sergeant, we better take care of business soon or my fingers won’t draw the light the way he’ll expect.” He pointed with his only thumb toward their captain and grunted. “Sunset’ll turn things.” Jast lowered his voice. “Your thirty-three and I may be nothing more than dead meat in the bloodied dirt soon.” Jaken could only nod in understanding and agreement before running to the captain’s side, a scant fifty feet further down the next platoon’s line.

  “Captain,” Jaken Holst offered as he approached.

  Captain Pok peered at the skirmishers through binoculars. With his body silhouetted by the darkened eastern horizon, the runes glowed brighter along the binocular’s edges than Jaken had ever noticed before. Runes soaked in the radiant light. When Pok offered no reply, Jaken could only wait. He scanned the enemy’s force and quickly estimated nearly five hundred skirmishers—men and women who had been turned by the blight forcibly or willingly. They’d been fighting these fallen humans for longer than he could remember, and he’d fought them off time and time again throughout this war. Would it ever end? Can it ever end?

  “Four hundred and eighty-five,” Captain Pok muttered, his deep voice rumbling. In calm times at night at the numerous burials, Pok sang dirges which had made strong men weep.

  “Sir?”

  “Four hundred and eighty-five of them. With only one leader.”

  “One, Sir?”

  “Are you doubting me, Sergeant.” Not a question, but a statement.

  Jaken cleared his throat,
giving himself time to think. “Not at all, Sir. Almost five regiments and only one leader. Seems odd, is all.”

  Pok nodded then replied, “Look for yourself.” He pointed to the middle of the staggered line of approaching soldiers before handing the binoculars to Jaken. “Look there.”

  Jaken Holst took the smooth leather-wrapped binoculars, his mouth slightly slack-jawed. Never had the captain let anyone else touch this rune-altered set. To be holding them up to his eyes, Jaken’s alertness heightened, despite his weariness. A breath later, his vision, enhanced by the runic sight, overwhelmed the other four senses in totality. The binoculars enhanced the crispness of every detail—colors brightened, shadows deepened, dirtied faces seemed to have never been cleaned, light glinting off armor flared Sol’s rays into white bars. Within seconds, piercing pain stung behind Jaken’s eyes, yet the Sergeant barely noticed through his concentration. A nagging, muted voice tugged at his ears like a mosquito flitting around his face. As he would swat such an annoyance, Jaken allowed himself to hear the voice to hopefully quiet it.

  “Sergeant! Look quickly and be done. Your eyes aren’t yet accustomed to the strain.”

  Jaken sighed at the voice’s insistence, knowing he needed to follow the order or after this battle the captain would have his hide. If I live through the battle. He let the binoculars scan until they reached the middle of the line where the captain had pointed. The line had pressed forward fifty paces, yet Jaken found the source of Pok’s concern—a person covered in black and gray chain armor. Jaken Holst knew instantly who led the enemy forward: Jonathon Stoutheart