The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  “Sergeant, you’ll focus on the camp. I will have you relieved, come first light. We can all rest easier once the song is done.”

  The mention of song brought Jaken’s focus outward. Not one campfire had anyone singing or playing an instrument. Normally, guitars or fiddles matched by songs of war, loved ones, life, and death flitted throughout the army’s camp. Now only the wind passing over the tall grasses, the crackling of firewood, and the creaking of tent poles offered any normalcy to the survivors. Jaken could hear the faint, pained cries of men and women in the medic’s tent. He had thanked one of the gods for the foresight to set that tent far from the camp. Which one of the gods? he pondered, his own tiredness plain at the ache behind his eyes.

  Ulia nodded, and replied, breaking through the confusion within his mind. “What are you going to be doing, Commander? You’ve still not offered that information, even to the two of us.” She motioned to herself and Jast Four-Fingers.

  “I’m going to watch over the dead.”

  Their confused faces mixed with sympathy, yet neither one looked in the direction of the swath of dead human beings. From the blighted runes’ effects, to the circle of death around Stoutheart’s body, the dead lay everywhere. And there was nothing they could do about it except continue thanking the other Originators that the wind blew to the south. By morning, the copious amounts of bodies would be covered in flies, maggots, and carrion eaters.

  And, there is nothing I can do about it, Jaken thought. “Tomorrow we will burn the dead, as quickly as possible, and take our survivors back to Jasten.”

  In unison, they replied, “Aye, sir.” Jast retrieved the sword and fell out of sight within seconds as he interweaved between camp tents. Jaken turned to travel the few hundred yards to the field of dead, but stopped short when a hand grasped his shoulder.

  “Are you ok, sir?” Ulia’s concern-laced voice brought Jaken’s head around. “Will you be fine. There?” She could not look in the direction of where he intended to stay this night. The concern in her words mirrored her eyes, their tightness keeping her fear in check.

  Jaken turned to face her. “Yes, Sergeant. I will be fine. Thank you for your concern, but we both have duties to tend to, regardless of how we feel about those duties.” His voice quieted. “Remain vigilant. I don’t believe that we really killed all of them. I fear one or two may be lying out in the field, faking their death, waiting for the right time to take down a few more of us.”

  Disbelief on Ulia’s face wiped away the concern, then understanding gleamed in her eyes. “Yes, of course, sir. We were unable to fully check the dead before nightfall.” She bowed stiffly in his direction, the top of her head barely a foot from Jaken. When she straightened, Ulia’s eyes had cleared. Doubt had fled, replaced with a renewed sense of her purpose. “Thank you, Sir. I will be steadfast.”

  Jaken nodded. “Of course. Now see to it.”

  He grinned, flashing his teeth, the first time he could remember doing so for many days. She returned a grin, lips tight, and turned on her heel. Just a few minutes prior, her shoulders slouched and weariness threatened to seemingly overwhelm her. Now, she walked away, back straight with one hand on her hilt.

  Good, Jaken thought. They will do fine. The thoughts persisted while he made his way to a hanging lantern. He grabbed a few small jugs of oil, then departed for where he had found the sword. Had it only been an hour? Days had passed, seemingly, yet when he glanced upward at the moons’ positions, his mind reeled at the discrepancy. Blackness persisted outside of his small bubble of light. The light brought him a sense of still being with his soldiers, and they could spot him as easily as he could see any of their firelight.

  Lumps of bodies, black and undecipherable, loomed around him in countless locations. The sound of crunching and ripping of bone and flesh barely reached through his bazen, the first few layers restored almost instantly once he sat on the damp night earth. Dew had already settled on the long stems of blue and golden grasses. Without the bazen he would have fallen victim to sleep almost as quickly as he had sat down. He would have to thank his master for the meditation, if he ever reached his home again.

  Hours passed, his bazen helping him through the worst of his sanity-ripping moments of the memories flashing through his mind. Visions of the battle became purposefully vague as he let his nose and ears monitor the dead. He filtered the images and memories through his layers as quickly as they formed. Eventually his mind quieted. His eyes served no purpose in the blackness, so he let them rest.

  Through the night’s now-normal sounds, Jaken heard something odd, as if a body were stepping upward from the ground. Then, footsteps with no intention of stealth. Slow and methodical, the feet pressed the grasses to the ground. What remained of the taller grasses snapped under the feet’s path to Jaken. Despite the distance, Jaken waited for the being to reach him. I knew there’d be one, at least, Jaken thought, the bazen’s layers keeping a smile from reaching his lips. The would-be assassin stalked closer, not stopping and not caring if Jaken heard the movement.

  Jaken remained seated, his back slouched, giving no outward sign that he even heard the creature. To any observer a dozen paces away, Jaken would have seemed to be asleep. When the being stood within two paces of Jaken, the commander launched himself upward toward the source of the sound. His already-unsheathed shortsword whipping outward at whomever dared to sneak up on him.

  Surprise coursed through Jaken’s being as a fist struck his head. Spots of light danced across his vision. Jaken’s bazen shattered by the suddenness while his sword hand released its grip. Before Jaken landed, a hand grasped his throat and lifted him into the air. Jaken could not feel the ground. With one last effort, Jaken launched a snap kick which would have put down any human. A muffled grunt responded, and the fingers tightened further around Jaken’s neck. The commander could still breathe, yet he relaxed back into his first bazen, the effort automatic.

  “You think that would hurt me, mortal? After the damage your men and women were able to do?” The voice held pure contempt, ragged and unadulterated, and borne of a wounded throat.

  The voice belonged to something dead, Jaken thought. His mind reeling, only the bazen kept the insanity from fully taking hold. Jaken’s unfocused eyes had not yet fallen on what grabbed him, yet he opened them enough to at least confirm what should have been impossible.

  Jonathon Stoutheart. Standing and holding him in the air. With one arm.

  “How?” Jaken grated out. Stoutheart released his grip slightly enough to let Jaken, now Stoutheart’s prey, speak.

  “Because of who I am.” Stoutheart offered nothing more. Jaken’s mind throbbed along with the pulsing flow of blood past the tightened hand. The commander could feel his brain losing focus even through the bazen’s hold, a hold stronger than even Stoutheart’s grip.

  “We killed you. I killed you.” Jaken tried to speak with force, but the words sounded weak, even to his ears. Then Jaken noticed the floating motes of light. They had returned and resumed repairing the Originator’s damaged flesh, dead flesh blighted by his own corruption. Jaken’s focus floated back to Stoutheart’s eyes. The smile reaching the huge man’s eyes eliminated Jaken’s hope of living through the night.

  “You did nothing my body can’t heal. Evolution is a powerful tool. Especially when conjoined with the power of Alteration.” Stoutheart sighed; his eyes narrowed. “After all these years, humans still think that they can simply end our existence through brute force. A single ant would have a better chance of destroying a war elephant.”

  Confusion flashed across Jaken’s face. “Ahh, yes. I forgot you wouldn’t know. An extinct animal.” Stoutheart tilted his head, then continued, “What is your name? I only ask because I’ve not been laid low in centuries. I want to know who my servant will be until the time comes for your mortality to sweep you away.”

  The commander coughed. “Jaken Holst.”

  “Jaken Holst,” Stoutheart repeated, as if savoring the name. “You h
ave my respect, which is why I won’t kill you or any of those people in the camp. But in the years to come, you’ll probably be begging me to have killed you this morning.” Then, Jaken slipped from Stoutheart’s grasp to land in a heap at the Originator’s feet. Jaken held himself up with one hand, the other gingerly rubbing his throat. He could feel bruises forming.

  “Jaken Holst. I’ll be in contact soon. I’ll get my sword back, but not today. I trust you’ll keep it safe.”

  Stoutheart offered a deep laugh, his voice less ragged. Jaken kept his eyes downward, not wanting to meet the Originator’s eyes. A breath later, the sound of boots striking the ground in quick paces brought a sigh of relief to Jaken. The massive man’s footfalls diminished, and he was out of earshot in two breaths. Only then did Jaken turn the other direction from the running footsteps; the camp’s fire punctuated the darkness along the black horizon.

  I’m alive, but at what cost? Jaken sighed, wondering if he would be better off committing suicide right then. The thought flicked away, as he looked at the camp of soldiers he had to protect, even if it meant sacrificing himself to that bastard.

  Jaken sat where he had landed until the sunrise peaked over the eastern horizon. He had done little since the confirmation, his mind unable to reconcile what his life had become in the past day. After tendrils of fear and anger crept along components of his brain, Jaken let his mind rest. He quieted it to simply focus on his breathing, the sun’s rise offering a brilliant counterpoint to the darkness within his mind. The pinks, reds, and oranges lit up the eastern low plains slowly burning away the dew. Dampness and cold had seeped so deeply into Jaken’s skin, his clothes and armor did little more than keep the crisp breeze off his exposed skin.

  Inhaling a long breath, Jaken let it sit in his lungs. He knew his life would bear little resemblance to what he had known. He exhaled, stood, and turned back toward the camp. A few soldiers milled about, and the morning’s air carried sounds of hammer on anvil and food frying on griddles. He sighed, thankful the cries of the wounded had all but stopped. He had not heard when silence had overtaken the shouts of pain. Jaken scanned the tents for Jast Four-Finger or Ulia. He found the Alterator first. Swallowing the lingering anticipation of what he had to do, Jaken strode toward Jast. The Alterator swung his gaze toward the commander as he reached camp. Both men stopped and stared at one another for a long moment. Both men’s nights had not been easy with the task given to them. And with eyes locked, they knew sharing their plight would mean the other man’s ruin.

  A call of “Commander Jaken” interrupted their silence. Before he turned to answer the call, Jaken Holst grinned at Jast Four-Fingers, a tired grin offering little comfort. The Alterator replied only with a grim smile, one that did not reach his eyes.

  When Jaken stopped his tale to Yabusan, one he had never uttered aloud, he stared outward through the inn’s front windows. He felt the exhaustion of that morning weighing upon his shoulders. The fingers gripping his neck. The glance of the Originator’s destroyed face only an arm’s length away. The sparkling motes of energy restoring the damaged flesh and organs. Jaken slammed a wall around those thoughts he had carefully bottled away. Verbalized thoughts he had hoped would never have reached anyone’s ears.

  Silence persisted between the gentle snores of the old man still dozing and the occasional popping of firewood. Within a few minutes, Yabusan said, “I’m not sure how you’ve been carrying all that loathing around in your mind all these years. I would’ve cracked like an egg long ago.”

  Jaken remained facing outside, not wanting to catch the innkeeper’s eyes. Jaken knew his rage for what happened to him all those years ago would bubble up. Rage had etched his consciousness deeper with each word. The white snowflakes falling just inches away helped to mitigate the pressure. He needed patience. Temperance. I must take these people to Ryukin and I’m done. Done. No more will I owe that fiend. The words’ hollowness echoed. After all these years, could it be true?

  Behind him Jaken could make out Yabusan rummaging around the bar, saying nothing and apparently leaving Jaken alone. Minutes later, Jaken caught sight of a black-cloaked person, a man by the build, striding up to the inn’s front door seemingly unfazed by the blizzard’s finality. The hood hid the man’s face, and thick, woolen gloves covered his hands.

  “You’re going to have to mind your tongue, innkeeper. You’ve got a customer.”

  “Don’t tell me how to mind my tongue in my own place, Jaken,” Yabusan began. “I’ll not suffer that, here.” He pointed a finger down on the now-cleared bar.

  Jaken still faced the window watching the stranger kick his black boots on the door jamb. With each strike, clumped snow fell to the steps. The stranger glanced upward with his focus on the doorknob. Jaken gasped in shock at the man’s skin color—pale gray, almost white. Before he could turn to warn Yabusan, the Guardian opened the door, a hand on one of the shortsword’s hilts hung on the black leather belt. The man kicked his boots again before smiling when he caught Jaken’s surprised glance.

  “Hello, Gentlemen,” the Guardian said, breaking the silence. “I trust the both of you are having a fine day.” He pulled back his hood. A tangle of shoulder-length, brownish-black hair pressed outward. A short layer of whitish stubble filled the Guardian’s lower face, his brown eyes scanning the room in one sweep. He reached his free hand up to scratch his scalp.

  “Yes, Guardian,” Yabusan replied. Jaken turned back to the window and faced outward, afraid his face would belie anything he attempted to mask. Yabusan continued, “If you want to count people trapped inside for the better part of two days being part of a fine day.”

  The Guardian chuckled, his wet boots tracking water atop the floorboards as he approached the fireplace. The man’s skin became darker gray the further he strode into the shadowed common room. He pulled off the two black gloves, laid them on the narrow mantle, then threw another two logs onto the fire. The flames’ tongues licked at the cured wood. The Guardian rubbed his hands together, then placed his palms forward toward the fire.

  “Nice place you’ve got here, innkeeper.”

  “Thank you. Normally we’d be quite a bit busier. But a passing traveler and a snoring old man are all you’re probably going to see today.”

  The Guardian chuckled again. Jaken frowned at the laugh, not sure what the man found humorous, but he kept his mouth closed. The less attention, the better. If this bastard found out about my cargo, then he’ll countermand my orders, no matter what documentation I have. The laughter finally stopped, and Jaken returned to the bar. He kept his eyes ahead, the Guardian’s back to him as he strode past.

  “Jaken Holst.”

  The name stopped Jaken a pace from the bar. Yabusan shot a glance at Jaken, but Jaken began forming layers of bazen, knowing it would insulate him from taking any rash actions. “Jaken Holst. Yes, that must be you,” the Guardian muttered, his voice faint.

  Well, there is no point in denying it, Jaken pondered.

  “Guardian. Are you talking to yourself or awaiting an answer?”

  A deeper laugh reached their ears, then cut off a scant breath later. “No question. Just ensuring you at least acknowledge my presence. You are well known, sir, at least by our kind.” The chuckling, deep and morose, renewed for a moment before he pulled a chair close to the fire. “Innkeeper,” the Guardian intoned, “bring me a warmed ale.”

  “Yes, of course,” Yabusan replied. “I’ll have that for you before your boots dry.”

  “So, come join me, Jaken Holst. Tell me about your plans.”

  “Not here, Guardian.”

  “No need to be so formal,” the Guardian muttered. “Call me Masten.” He turned in the chair and barked, “Innkeeper, warm ale. My throat feels raw after nothing but water on my trip north.”

  Jaken caught Yabusan’s expression and shook his head to his friend. Don’t agitate this man. To help forestall Yabusan’s comment, Jaken replied, “Masten. Is your sergeant in town, too? Can we expect more m
en to occupy this fine inn tonight?” Jaken pulled another wooden chair up to Masten’s side and concentrated on another layer of bazen.

  “My squad is scouring the roads north of here. They and at least one other are on a hunt.”

  “A hunt, you say,” Jaken offered. His squad. Great. So, this thing will be in my way more than I could have reckoned. “And two squads. Must be trouble. Anything we should be worried about?”

  “Nothing at all, Jaken Holst,” Masten replied. He chuckled as Yabusan approached with a dark stained wooden platter. Atop it lay two ceramic mugs, steam wafting upward. “My men or the other squad will contain our quarry soon.”

  Both men thanked Yabusan and sipped from the mugs. “Fine ale, Yabusan,” Jaken said followed by a nod from the Guardian.

  “Nothing but the best for the two of you,” Yabusan replied, his face initially beaming. When he recalled who sat next to Jaken, Yabusan’s face faded.

  “Agreed,” Masten said. “Bring me another, Innkeeper Yabusan.”

  “You seem to know us by name, Masten,” Jaken prompted. “I’ve not heard of you, sir, and I know all the squad sergeants.”

  “You know better than to delve into my knowledge without provocation, road guard.” The informal title came out like a curse.

  “My apologies,” Jaken muttered. He sipped and let the ale’s steam fill his nose between drinks. Silence took hold over the men, and while they finished the first mug their focus remained on the fire. Masten leaned forward from the chair and placed another log into the waiting flames.

  “You know, Jaken Holst,” Masten began as he repositioned on the seat, his condescending tone grating on Jaken’s ears, “things do change in Sacclon’s military. And regularly. Even someone as well-traveled as you should know that.”

  Without the multilayered bazen, Jaken would have stood and laughed. Instead, he replied, “Sergeant, your men have been claiming to be part of Sacclon’s military for going on fifteen years now. Almost as soon as the Five-Year Peace ended.”