Child of Sorrows

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Sword flicked a quick glance past Wahy, looking at Tiawan and La'ug, who were both walking toward her. La'ug's furry chest glowed with the same fire as Wahy's, and Sword was sure that Tiawan bore the same glow under his armor.

  For now, though, all she could see was his face as the helm snapped back. "You dare!" he snarled. Rage beyond any she had yet seen settled over his expression.

  Sword tried to keep one eye on Wahy's still form while watching the other two threats approach with her other. It wasn't that the berserker feared her, or her weapon: his eyeless expression still possessed the same mad rage it had in the instant before he stopped.

  Before something made him stop.

  (the gem)

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped back at Tiawan. "I haven't done anything."

  Tiawan gestured all around: the downed tanks, the smoking craters, the shrieks of pain and grieving. His wild wave turned into a more precise gesture as he pointed at one of the tanks. "You brought them here," he said. Spittle flew off his lips. "You led them right to us. Right to them."

  Wahy emitted a low, guttural growl. He still didn't move, but Sword now knew that was only because Tiawan, though his own jewel, could control the berserker. And that the old man's control was losing out to his rage.

  "I did not," she said quietly.

  "Don't lie to us, girl, you –"

  "I. Did. NOT!" Her own scream drowned out his last words. Anger took hold of her with surprising intensity, forcing her words to come even louder. "How in the name of the Gods could you think that? You call me Judge and Jury and laud me for helping the innocent, then you accuse me of working with corruption. You bring me here so we can tell our stories to one another, but you never once actually listen." She spat toward Tiawan. "You're a hypocrite."

  Wahy's arms lowered an inch. His fingers curved slightly, preparing to grab her. And she knew that she wouldn't win. Not here. Not against all three of the strongest enemies she had ever met.

  I couldn't even beat one of them.

  Then, suddenly, the berserker shivered. His head rolled back, and he seemed to lessen somehow. His shoulders slumped slightly, and the gem in his chest gave a single bright pulse.

  He looked back at her. His eyes had returned, as had the childlike innocence. He grinned sheepishly, as though the butt of a joke she had not heard, then moved back toward Tiawan.

  As he did, La'ug twisted and writhed as well. Sword could neither track nor define the creature's movements. One moment there was a furry monster, a thing of nightmares. The next there was only a girl in thick fur coats, holding a woolly and glaring at Sword.

  Tiawan was back in his chair, as well. The old man looked weary, and actually sagged a bit. La'ug stepped forward to take his left arm, and Wahy stood behind him on his right, the Strong reaching out to bear some of Tiawan's weight.

  Tiawan looked around. His jaw worked up and down as though suddenly unsure of what to say. When he looked back at Sword, there were tears in his eyes.

  "They did nothing. They did nothing to you or to the Emperor."

  "I told you, I didn't do this. And neither did the –"

  Tiawan cut her off. "I don't know whether you lie or not. You have done good for the people. But something has to change. This," he said, gesturing at the broken men and women all around, "has to change."

  He put a hand over his face for a moment. When he moved it away, his tears were gone. So was any warmth.

  "I will let you live. But the Emperor – and the Empire – dies today."

  His chair shifted. His armor grew, and covered him, and the last thing she saw were eyes as dead and empty as the Nether-pits of the berserker.

  Wahy and La'ug moved to him without a word being spoken. They both climbed aboard the hand- and foot-holds that sprouted from his armor. Gears clicked, flames sprouted from his back.

  And he was gone.

  He flew west. Toward the palace.

  Sword was left behind. No way to stop him, no way to even catch him. The palace would be caught unawares again, and by the time she caught up – if she ever did, the palace would likely be gone.

  As would any of her friends who were still there.

  She didn't know what to do. For the first time in her life, she saw no choices, no good alternatives. Not even the simple choice between life and death: hers was not immediately in danger, and the ones that were, were so far beyond her reach that they might as well be in another world.

  She looked around her. The dead and wounded still scattered the landscape. She could help them. At least it would be… something.

  But the instant she moved toward the nearest injured, two men converged on her. She could see they were scared – terrified, even – but though they trembled, she still saw conviction in their eyes.

  "Leave," said one of the men. The other nodded.

  "I can help," she said, and felt the lie of it burn her tongue. What could she do, really? What had she managed so far?

  The men both shook their heads in unison. And more men and women began to draw near. Their expressions ranged from fear – but with that steely resolve beneath – to outright rage.

  "Leave," said the man again. His voice was soft, and this time carried a pleading note.

  Sword left. Walking west as fast as she could. Perhaps she could get to Center. Could find an auto-car, or even a Wanderer who could move her a few miles closer to where she needed to be.

  Perhaps she could warn the palace… and help them prepare for war. A strange war – the remaining might of an entire Empire against three people – but a deadly one for all that.

  Not that much might remains.

  Half the Imperial Army had been lost when Phoenix caused Fear to erupt around the Army base called the Acropolis. The rest had been scattered in various places around the Empire – but the two largest groups were at the palace, and stationed in the Strongholds. She figured the people at the palace were still there – those who hadn't simply deserted after Tiawan's first attack.

  But the Strongholds? Was there anyone even there? The tanks had come from there, and the soldiers inside them must have been stationed there. But tanks and soldiers alike had been stolen – coopted by Phoenix and Marionette.

  What had happened to the rest of the soldiers stationed at the Strongholds?

  She was away from the small camp of refugees in minutes, and within an hour she was far enough away that she could not see any trace of what remained of the camp – other than plumes of smoke that reached into the sky at the spots where tanks had crashed or their bullets exploded.

  She was alone.

  She suddenly wondered whether she would even make it out of Fear. She was on a road, but she had no idea where it led or whether it would get her to a settlement before hunger or thirst claimed her.

  Don't worry about that. If that's what happens, the Empire is doomed anyway. Just put one foot in front of the other, Sword.

  She continued walking. Her wounds hurt abysmally, and soon stung even worse as her salty sweat dripped into them. Worse, she knew Tiawan, La'ug, and Wahy were getting closer to the palace with each step she took.

  How long before they got there?

  How long had it taken Tiawan to fly her from Center's Edge to this place in Fear? Minutes? Hours?

  She didn't think it had been hours.

  She did her best to ignore that idea, and the reality it represented: the reality that she would never catch up to him, and that the Empire was at an end.

  "My, my, my."

  The words stopped her faster than a bullet to the brain. Sword had been walking with downcast eyes, her body gradually settling into the rhythm of her walk with hypnotic efficiency. Now her gaze snapped up and forward.

  "You," she snarled.

  The man before her grinned modestly. He waved a hand, and as he did he transitioned from the older man she had first known as the Chancellor, to an old woman with a hump, to a tall man with a streak of gray in his otherwise-black ha
ir, to a curly-haired boy, to the final form who had been known as Devar.

  All a lie. There was only Phoenix.

  Behind him, Marionette sat on the rocky ground, playing with one of her dolls. This one had only half its head, and most of its body looked acid-scarred. The little girl made it dance for a moment, then looked up at Sword with her red eyes. She smiled, and her smile was oddly reminiscent of Wahy's: empty of reason, of human understanding. But where Wahy's eyes held a childlike innocence and were quick to smile, Marionette's gaze held only fire and madness within its depths.

  Sword stepped forward, her katana appearing in her right hand, her wakizashi in her left. She gritted her teeth and took a step forward. She didn't know how Phoenix was behind all that had happened, but he was. She knew it.

  He must be.

  She was about to move forward. About to dance toward him, ready to deal death.

  He disappeared.

  A voice spoke, directly behind her: "You couldn't kill me before."

  She spun, whirling around to hack at Phoenix, who had transported from his place before her to a hiding spot behind. But he was already gone.

  "You can't kill me now," he said, and again his voice came from behind.

  She turned. "You attacked me with magic," he said.

  Another whirl, another slash at nothing. "You tried to kill me with your weapons," said his voice from behind.

  Turn. "You impaled me."

  Turn. Slash. Nothing. "You threw me into the forbidden realms below the mountains."

  A final turn, and still she had only managed to slash and stab empty air. Phoenix stood twenty feet away, grinning from the face of a young man she had once thought she might love. But she saw the cruelty in Devar's – Phoenix's – eyes now, and wondered how she had ever been so stupid.

  Phoenix crossed his arms. "All that, and you couldn't kill me. So what makes you think you can do any better this time?"

  Sword's lips curled. "Because this time I'm going to cut you to bits and burn the pieces."

  She rushed forward.

  And stopped when he said, "But wouldn't you like to know what's happening in the Empire? And who the real enemy is?"

  19

  Heroism finally did what suffering could not: it convinced Wind to leave the side of her love.

  Malal was the same.

  No. Not the same. He fails with every passing hour.

  She knew he would not last long – not even the few days the Patches had told her to hope for. And she had fully intended to stay at his side until the end.

  And then? She didn't know, exactly. Only a single word kept sounding in her mind.

  Vengeance.

  She fought it away every time it appeared. Not because of some ideal she had learned at the feet of Brother Scieran or Father Inmil. Not because she harbored hopes that she was a good person who might someday be received into the bosom of the Gods. She denied thoughts of revenge simply because that was something that would happen after.

  And after was something she refused to contemplate. It would come soon enough, and there was no need to hurry the future into the present by thinking about it.

  So she stayed. Held the hand of her beloved – a hand that continually sloughed to muck under her palm, then firmed and reformed as the Patches worked their magic.

  Even when Cloud left for a time, and the sun suddenly darkened outside the bedroom window – even then she took no notice. When Cloud returned with a subdued expression and stood behind her, she barely saw him. There was only Malal, and her, and the future they would never have.

  Vengeance.

  Then something changed. She didn't know if it happened gradually or not – perhaps it was sudden, but her notice of it was a creeping thing, slow and nearly unnoticeable until she became fully aware of it.

  There were too many people in the room.

  It had been nearly a funeral service before. The Patches and priests, the guards standing watch and no one other than Cloud really daring to enter or leave. Now, though, people were moving in and out of the room. Whispering to the guards, some of whom Signed to Cloud. He had no official standing in their ranks, but they all knew he was the brother of the Captain. More than that, they had come to accept his quiet strength, the wisdom of his words whenever he spoke.

  She saw Cloud speaking to them, though his back was always turned enough that she could not make out the words – even had she cared to do so.

  Then, suddenly, one of the priests who sat watch at the Emperor's bedside cried out. Wind did not hear the sound, but there was no mistaking the agony on his face. He fell, grabbing at the bedspread as he tumbled to the floor as if holding to it might keep him from falling into an abyss of pain.

  One of the Patches left the circle that worked to keep Malal alive. Wind almost shouted at him, but the words that echoed silently in her mind – Ignore him, you fool! Only Malal matters! – would have come out as nothing but a wordless howl, and at best would only have distracted the other Patches.

  She looked at the priest. The Patch had lain hands on him, obviously concentrating his magic. The priest pushed him away. He said something, and this time Wind did see it.

  "No. I don't matter any more than the others. Keep the Emperor alive."

  Then one of the guards came forward and helped the priest to his feet with the same care one might give a newborn. The priest shrieked. Wind did not hear. She barely noticed. A word was in her mind, and it stole her focus.

  Not vengeance this time. A different, more terrible word.

  Others?

  She looked behind her. Cloud still stood there, though he had moved slightly. Hours must have passed since the sun fell dim.

  She gestured to him, and as he came forward she noticed other changes in the room.

  There were fewer guards stationed around the outside of the chamber. And several of the ones that remained held to their spears as though they were the only things keeping them standing. Their faces were covered by the black skull helm of the Imperial Guard, so Wind could not tell what their expressions were. But something about them bespoke great pain. Not of soul, but of body.

  More telling: Cloud's face had gone from mournful to near-despairing.

  She turned away from Malal, the hardest thing she had ever done.

  She Signed to Cloud: "What is happening?"

  He looked hesitant. That scared her more than anything else. She and Cloud had always shared everything. The only thing that had ever parted them in the slightest was her love for Malal. And it wasn't a wedge, but a bridge. Their worlds had shifted, parted slightly because she had a new love, one that was greater in its way than the love she felt for him. But that love only served to show how alike they remained, how close they were. Malal had never stood in the way of it, had never insisted on being more important than her brother. He shared her, and in doing so won her completely.

  Cloud finally responded. "It's not a poison."

  For an instant, Wind's heart leaped. Then she saw the guard, still helping the priest who had fallen. They stutter-stepped their way to the door, and as they did the back of the priest's robe fell down slightly. Enough for her to see the blackened skin on his back, the torn and rotted flesh beneath.

  She knew.

  "Plague," she Signed. Cloud nodded. "How?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "No one knows."

  "How many?"

  Another hesitation. Then, "Most of the palace. Half the entire castle."

  Her blood seemed to seize within her. Cold traveled from her fingers and toes inward, driving thought and feeling away as they traveled.

  "Half?"

  She didn't realize that she had Signed until Cloud responded. "At least."

  "Are the Patches helping?"

  "All the Patches in the castle are here." He gestured at Malal's bedside.

  "Then get some from the city!"

  Another hesitation. Cloud told her what he had done. How he had cut the castle off from the rest of Center – t
he rest of the world – in order to stop what he knew was coming. Or at least contain it here so no one else would suffer.

  She was angry for a split-second. But it passed, and she hugged her brother. No one should have to make such a decision. She knew it would torment him forever, even though it was the right thing to do.

  If there is a forever, she thought.

  She turned back to Malal. She knew what she had to do.

  Malal was doomed.

  There were others who were suffering.

  Those two things alone were not enough. She would have had the Patches stay with him, no matter what. Selfish, she knew, but she was neither as kind nor as right-hearted as her brother. He could do what the greater good required. She could do only what those she loved actually needed in order to ease their pain.

  But there was this final thing she knew: Malal would not want it this way.

  "Take the Patches," she Signed. "Let them see to those in pain."

  Cloud shook his head. She saw movement in her peripheral vision. Turned and saw the guards who remained – even those in the throes of agony – shaking their heads. Several Signed no with such emphasis they nearly fell.

  Cloud Signed, "The people were angry at first. Angry at me for cutting them off. Then…." He shrugged. "They understood."

  "All the more reason to give them relief," she answered.

  "I agree."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "No one will accept the help of the Patches. I tried to send one around. Everyone turned him away. They told him to see to the Emperor. And only to him."

  Wind ran from the room. Tears streamed down her cheeks – Gods, when was the last time she actually wept like this? – as she flew into the hall, then turned down the corridor. She peered into every room she passed. Most were empty.

  A few were not.

  The dead and dying lay in beds, on stretches of floor. A terrible juxtaposition, with the dead and dying from the armored man's attack: those injured by falling stone or fire laying among those dying of falling flesh, and a fire born in their very bones.

  Many suffered from both maladies. Many died from both attacks… and suffered all the more for it.