The further I stay away from them, the better, Syros thought to himself, watching the back of Deckard as he strolled nonchalantly away. However, his stomach was violently rumbling; he had not eaten anything since he had first entered the village. Despite how much he might now despise it, he was still a human being who needed sustenance. There was what could have been food within the hut, but it was of strange colours and textures. Who knew what would happen if he even attempted to ingest it.
Syros had not got along with his grandfather over the past couple of years, yet despite this, he found tears rolling down his face after he opened the letter and learned of his death. He cried for what had transpired between them and the fact that they would never be able to reconcile their differences. But mostly he cried for Ednon and how alone he must be feeling back at Jovian, without either of them there by his side. He wanted to get up from where he was sitting, in this vile, miserable, blood-soaked place, and return to him. But he knew he would be unable to. Raynmaher had said as much back in his tent, that he was bound, until death, to the military. He could run away, but he did not know in which direction. All he could do was sit here and reflect solemnly, thinking of all his mistakes. “Keep safe, Syros” had been his grandfather’s last words to him. Well, he certainly hadn’t taken those words to heart; he was currently the furthest thing in the world from being safe. What else did the old man tell me? “I fear I will not be the one who ends up saving your halo that now seems so lost within the dark.” Ira had always been one for dramatic speeches, but appeared to be right on this occasion; Syros’s entire life had been plagued by darkness. He certainly was not Ednon, that was for sure.
He had woken up one night when he was a child, in the darkness of their shared bedroom. Though Ednon was only a couple of feet away, asleep in his own bed, he looked very much like a distant star, coming in and out of focus. Ednon’s whole body was illuminating, pulsing through different stages of brightness. Syros wondered whether it was real; perhaps he was only dreaming. He asked Ednon the following night to watch him sleep to see if he too shone like a star. “Was I shining, Ed?” Syros had asked after Ednon woke him. The disappointment Syros had felt as Ednon indicated that he hadn’t had been astronomical. Why? Why am I never the one who is special? He sat up into the night. Why is he always the perfect one?
“Syros?”
Quickly wiping the tears away, he sat up to see who it was that wanted his time. He was surprised to see young Freckon walking through the hanging beads and into the hut.
“Sy?” he repeated quietly after scanning around to locate him.
Syros did not respond. He did not want Freckon here, not now, not when he had so many tears still inside him fighting to get out. The newly blooded killer made his way over apprehensively, sat down on one of the empty beds and looked over towards him, a haunted expression across his face.
“It’s horrible, isn’t it? I never knew this was what military life would be like, I never thought…” he stuttered nervously. Syros noticed he was trying to open up. “I never wanted to join the military,” Freckon continued feebly. “My father grew sick after my mother died. I needed to get away from everything, but I never thought…”
“Freckon.”
“Yes, Sy?”
“Fuck off.”
And with that, Syros stood up. Ignoring the hurt across the timid lad’s face, he made for the open door and out into the village. He was sorry. Truly sorry. He had not meant to hurt the young lad’s feelings, but it was true, he could not care in the slightest. In this world, his not caring was the least Freckon should be worrying about; he could, for example, be like one of these dead Alpelites, Syros thought, noticing the bodies that had been lazily tossed to the side of the walkway. This village was death. This world was death. Humanity was death. Existence was a man endlessly burning on cinders, while death was the sweet relief of a tsunami pulling him out of his misery. He felt enmity as he made his way through the rows of Alpelite bodies, not for his comrades who had butchered them, but for existence itself. He craved to no longer have independent thought, to cease being the angst-filled orphan boy from the war-torn planet of Vena. To be like the Venians. Although, we have even managed to make the Venians hate us. At the centre of nature and all those organisms within her reach, there is inherent cruelty. Life was nothing but a struggle for survival; everything else was irrelevant. Survival is the only thing that matters in this world. He was not a pessimist; he merely saw things clearly.
He knew where his comrades would be holding their feast as there was only one hut that had joyous sounds emitting from it. He did not expect anything less, or indeed more, from his comrades. This was life, death was a part of life, so who could blame them for trying to enjoy it? But the look of pure ecstasy across Mercivous’s face as the deaths ensued, was something that he could never understand. There wasn’t a star in sight in the sullen night sky – for some uknown reason, this made the whole situation feel even more depressing. The rain was also beginning to fall for the first time since Sechen’s passing all those months ago.
He heard something as he walked on, different to the laughter from the biggest hut on the outskirts of the village. He realised the noise was coming from the closest hut on his right-hand side. It sounded muffled, mixed with frantic thudding. He reached the opening, peered inside and saw the large Alpelite, who had come so close to killing him, chained up to the wall. Beaten and bloodied, with the central of its three eyes completely blackened, the Alpelite shook itself violently, trying to break free from its chains. You should have killed me, Syros thought to himself as he walked past, moving closer towards his comrades’ location. You should have killed me… and made everything so much easier.
Wandering up to where the feast was taking place, the sounds of joyous laughter now in clear earshot, and without anything else to lose, he walked inside. The chatter abruptly stopped. Even Narcisi, Keenan and Koman, who were having sex in the far corner, and who had previously been all groans, stopped and stared at him. The rest were all sitting around a wooden table, eating a meat that Syros did not recognise, and at the table’s head sat Mercivous. Although the youngest teenager among them, he looked very much like a king entertaining his adoring subjects. His blue eyes, so bright that they seemed completely white, fixed on Syros as he stepped forwards.
“The white knight joins us!” Mercivous elated to the others, who began to laugh. “Sit down, Syros, we were wondering when we would be seeing you once more.”
Obeying his command, Syros sat down in an empty space next to Jamison at the opposite end of the table. He picked up the meat and studied it. It was burnt, but it did not smell like pig, cow or any other meat common to him.
“You hungry?” Mercivous motioned to the platters of meat. “There is plenty left, Syros, plenty to last for days…” Syros placed the meat down and started to breathe heavily, feeling dizzy and faint. The room laughed once more, with Mercivous’s crazed howls carrying the loudest.
“What’s wrong?” Mercivous demonically hissed. “Are you not hungry? What about Narcisi, would you like to sleep with her? She may not be as pretty as your dear Saniya, but she seems very eager. She keeps asking if she can have you… No? That’s sad… perhaps you could put yourself to good use then. That big fucker we have locked up, we need to keep it alive for Raynmaher, as it knows of the radicals’ movements. But it seems ever so angry. I’m not sure why.” He mocked, as he took another bite out of the meat. “Go take watch over it and be of some use.”
Gladly, Syros thought as he stood up. Coming here was a mistake. He should have waited alone, away from the delirious silver-haired madman and his legion of brain-dead puppets.
“And Syros,” Mercivous called after him. Syros turned back round, to see an expression so manic and deranged he was certain it would forever haunt his nightmares. “Stay virtuous…”
Syros made his way into the hut where his would-be killer was
chained up. Its two remaining eyes followed Syros as he sat down against one of the walls and gave out a deep sigh. This is like a nightmare… he thought to himself. No, even his nightmares were never as dark as this – this was reality. If only he were indeed dreaming, how he would love that. I’m sorry, Ira. I should have listened, and now everything is broken and evil. He began to feel tears once more; he would never see him again and from the way things were heading he would never see Ednon either. He placed a hand in front of his eyes, trying desperately to stop himself from breaking down entirely.
“Human…” the chained life form spoke quietly. “Can you tell me what has happened to my people?”
“I’m so sorry,” was all Syros could return, in a voice that shattered like glass.
“They were nice here,” the Alpelite continued. “They took care of my wounds even when they knew the danger it may have brought them.”
A moment’s pause followed; the rain fell through the cracks in the flimsy rooftop, dropping silently onto the ground. He could also hear the wind pick up pace, causing the hut to gently shake from side to side. The Alpelite’s face was bloodied, with parts of its body missing entirely. Syros spotted in particular that two of the creature’s twelve fingers had been removed completely. After a moment of silence, its eyes lifted to him. “I watched you. You did not take part in the slaughter. Why is this?”
“Because I still have humanity,” Syros responded, now not entirely sure what the term meant.
“Humanity?” the chained Alpelite uttered with a faint scoff. “Look around you, boy, to this village and the young whose lives are now over before they had even started… this is the extent of your humanity.”
“An Alpelite raiding party attacked my village, killing both my parents…”
“The same thing happened to me when I was young,” it said with a slight shrug. “We cannot change the wrongs of the past, or indeed present, for we are merely individuals playing a part in a much larger game.” The disparate life form’s voice was deep and rough, yet Syros still could make out every word that it uttered. “We may not have evolved from the same mammals or indeed originated from the same planet; we may not even have the same colour of blood flowing within us. But we are both comprised of the same stardust and matter, and perhaps that may be enough. Medzu teaches us not to hate, yet we ignore his teachings so blindingly.”
“You speak our language well,” Syros said, taken aback by the Alpelite’s articulation of the tongue that was not native to it.
“I feel that we made more of an effort to understand your language than you ever have ours…”
“What is your name?” Syros asked the once three-eyed organism.
“Bora,” it responded, after another moment’s pause. “I was born and raised in the volcanic dead wastelands of Ankor. You are not like the others.” It strained its back to sit upright. “You are not cruel, not like the one with the silver hair. It comes in here and cuts its blade into me slowly, while singing gently into my ear, telling me the atrocities it has done to my fellow species. But you are not like this; you have compassion. I thank you.”
Syros felt shock, after all we have done to this village, how could it possibly be showing so much magnanimity?
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything to help. I could only stand by and watch.”
“I do not expect you to risk your life for us, human. Survival is one of the only things that matters in existence. But you feel sadness for us and this is why I thank you.” The Alpelite, though having the appearance of being strong and ferocious, seemed to have a gentler side to it, which reminded him so much of his friend Torjan.
“To protect what one holds dear,” Bora continued, its breathing heavy, “is also one of these important treasures in life.” Syros touched his scarred hand after it had said this and thought of his vow with his friends as they lay underneath the moonlight. He also thought of Ednon; they were, truly, all that mattered in life.
“It’s uncanny, isn’t it?” spoke a cold voice.
Syros quickly turned his head to see Mercivous standing by the entrance of the hut; his white eyes were gleaming within the stygian night. The sound of thunder suddenly roared in the distance, as a slight smile grew across his milky-pale face.
“Just how like us they are,” Mercivous continued, making his way into the room. He crouched in front of Bora who had returned to complete silence. “The way they beg for just a few more seconds of momentary existence.” He pulled out a blade from his belt, before stopping to admire its sharpness. “The way the young cry to their mothers for help…”
He buried the dagger deep into the side of Bora, who let out an anguished yell, before twisting the knife in the Alpelite’s side. “It’s all so very human…” It was from an entry point that would not kill the creature, but Syros was sure that Mercivous knew this already, as he watched the delirium grow. Just kill him… Syros put his hand upon his sword’s grip. Just kill him… Decisions were weighing in his mind, they were flying at such a pace that they were hard to focus on. Just kill him… He knew what he wanted to do, but the ramifications of such an act he was certain would bring into his life only future darkness.
“So… very… human.”
As quick as thunder, Syros unsheathed his sword and plunged it through the back of Mercivous. And there was silence once again. Heart pounding and mind cracking at the seams, and after a moment of stillness, he withdrew his blade from his comrade, who turned to look at him. Then, swiftly and viciously, Mercivous gripped Syros’s head and brought it to inches away from his own. His eyes seemed full of shock, as if he could not process what was happening. His long fingernails, sharp as arrowheads, clawed at Syros’s eyesockets. The grip, just as before, was fierce, yet Syros could feel it faltering. Mercivous gave a single cough and gore splattered into Syros’s face. Through the red mist he sensed Mercivous growing weaker and, as they continued their mutual exchange, they both knew he was going to die. Blood gushed onto the floor like a king spilling his wine at a grand feast. Die… die… die… Syros pleaded, as he watched his adversary fall to his knees.
“Perfect…” was the last word that Mercivous uttered, as he finally collapsed, a puddle of red circulating around his cold, unmoving corpse.
13
Dissonance in the Underground
Ednon travelled through the vast underground network of tunnels and corridors. It was dingily lit, with small vermin scurrying in every direction as the four of them wandered onwards. Ednon guessed they must be close to the sewers, as something slimy from above dripped onto his head. A foul smell was permeating the air. Not at all what he had expected, making his way to the headquarters of such a supposedly prestigious Order. The bartender at Oedipia’s Temporal had led them to a secret passageway in the back of the tavern underneath an array of various ale and wine barrels. They had been walking for what felt like hours, through bland darkened corridors that seemed to stretch on for miles, intersecting in every direction. Ednon was surprised by just how easily the Elders weaved their way in the underground web. He was certain if he were ever left here alone, he would be forever buried beneath the golden city. Levy and Abacus led the group out in front, while Ednon found himself in conversation with the utterly drunk Jung, who was telling him stories of long ago in a slurred, mumbled manner.
“Then there was the time at your grandfather’s bachelor party,” Jung chuckled happily, as he reminisced. “We had gotten so drunk that night that they found your grandfather passed out naked upon the top of Kymous’s shrine!” He laughed while taking a sip of ale that he had taken, without the bartender’s knowledge, from the back-stores of the tavern. “Simpler times, Ed, much simpler.”
Ednon listened to the old man tell his stories in disbelief. Could this really be the same Ira he had known? The idea of his grandfather drunk, upon a shrine of any kind, was almost impossible for him to imagine.
“Did you
use to drink with my grandfather a lot?”
Jung nodded his head. “Oh my, yes. But I knew him when he was much younger, and a lot less wise. Anyway, that all changed after he married Orla.”
His grandfather had rarely talked of his grandmother; she had died many years before Ednon was born. All he knew was that his grandfather had loved her dearly, drawing many sketches in an attempt never to forget her face. From all the stories and depictions, she appeared to have been an exceedingly beautiful woman.
“Did you know my grandmother well?”
“Only that her beauty caused trouble; your grandfather was always very smitten. I remember it was me, Ira and Fergus…”
“Fergus?” Ednon quickly interrupted. “The same Fergus who was at Ira’s funeral?”
Jung pondered thoughtfully. “Yes, he may have been there. I don’t remember seeing him myself, but I had quite a lot to drink that day. Err… where was I? Ah yes… I digress,” Jung snapped, suddenly annoyed. “It was me, Ira and Fergus. We were in a tavern in Asterleigh when she walked in, her long golden hair swayed as she took each footstep, her eyes radiated life, her…” Jung coughed uncertainly, “other features… that was when your grandfather turned to me and said that was the girl he was going to marry. And then, lo and behold, a few months later, they were.”
“That’s a nice story,” Ednon said, feeling a little warmer.
“Aye, it’s a nice story. Almost enough to actually make me have some faith in this shit-stained mundane existence.” He spat as he downed his bottle of ale, before throwing it behind him, causing rats to scurry and squeak viciously. “Fucking vermin!” he shouted, watching the bottle smash upon the ground.
“Perhaps if you were not such an old misogynist, you would have one of these stories of your own,” Levy said, giving Ednon a slight wink.
To Tame the Sentry Being Page 13
