by West, Shay
The servant led them quickly past the trees with the urgits and into the palace. The main hall teemed with people waiting for their turn to see the Patriarch. Most were simple folk, most likely here with some sort of dispute they felt only Sheldon could solve. Some were merchants from the city carrying large bags that jingled with the taxes they owed the Patriarch. There were even a handful of Lords and Ladies. Each had to wait as equals; when petitioning, it was first come, first serve.
Unless Captain Thrace Morden happened to be in your party.
The group walked past all the people sitting on benches or leaning against walls. Many an eye opened in disbelief as the party swept past those who had been waiting since well before dawn. Whispers and incredulous gasps followed them as they made their way to the main audience chamber.
The servant opened the massive oak doors and bowed, indicating with his arm that they should enter. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the tile floors. The walls were draped with tapestries depicting various important points in history of the ruling family of Tranquility Island.
The current Patriarch of the Eastern Continent, Sheldon, sat on his throne, looking more like a farmer than the highest-ranking member of the ruling house. Where Patriarch Mordaen, the leader of the Western Continent, looked every inch a nobleman, Sheldon looked like he would be more comfortable behind a plow. His was short and fat, with a belly barely concealed by his rumpled robes. The only hair remaining on his head stuck out in tufts above his enormous ears.
“I suppose we better get down to business. You have never used your clout to force a meeting before so I assume this must be important.” Sheldon stood and led the group to an antechamber off the throne room, which had a table large enough to seat over a hundred men. Servants brought silver trays bearing chilled wine and ale.
Morden spoke as soon as they were seated. “This is greater than anything Astra has ever faced, your Grace.”
“Well, out with it man!”
Morden looked to the others seated at the table. When none of them appeared to want to jump in with an explanation, he sighed. “It’s going to sound crazy, your Grace, but I assure you that what we are about to tell you is the truth. The seers and bone-readers have been right about Astra being in danger, your Grace. There is something coming, something we can’t possibly fight.”
Sheldon sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking twenty years older. “Do I even want to know the nature of this threat?” He downed his goblet of wine.
“They are called Mekans, your Grace. They are made of metal and bigger than you can possibly imagine. They’re in the Blasted Lands but won’t remain there for long,” Saemus said.
“You’ve seen them?”
“Yes, your Grace. We had a special weapon we thought would kill them but it only stunned them.”
“A weapon? Like a catapult?”
“No, your Grace,” Saemus looked to Morden, knowing that if he tried to explain to Sheldon about the sound weapon, he probably wouldn’t believe it.
At a nod from Morden, Saemus continued. “This weapon isn’t like anything we have here on Astra. Umm...it uses sound to kill the enemy.”
Sheldon’s eyes widened and he guffawed. “Did Morden put you up to this?” He laughed but the emotion never really reached his eyes.
“It’s not a joke, and unless you wish to rule over a dead continent, I suggest you listen to these people,” Morden said, eyes hard.
“Now see here, I’m still Patriarch—”
Jon interrupted the conversation. “Maybe you should start acting like one.”
Sheldon turned to face Jon, his face turning red. “What did you say to me, young man?”
“You heard me. You won’t be Patriarch for long unless you heed our words and take action.” Jon stood with his hands on the table, facing the Patriarch. “We have been chosen to stop the Mekans but we have lost many of our comrades and victory isn’t certain at this point. You need to mobilize your people and move them as far from the Mishrae Hills as possible. If nothing else, by doing so you’ll ensure the survival of your people for as long as possible.”
Sheldon’s face grew redder with each word. “I’ll not be told how to run my Continent by the likes of you!” He stood and shoved his chair back so hard it toppled over.
“Maybe if you would actually run your continent instead of enjoying your drink.” Jon swiped a glass of wine off the table.
This isn’t going well at all.
Morden stood as well, hoping to salvage the situation before it deteriorated further. “Please, your Grace. He didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Don’t apologize for me, Morden, I meant every word,” Jon said.
“We need his help if we are to get word to the people to leave! You have to understand, this isn’t easy. The things you speak of are so strange they seem impossible,” Morden said.
“Think about how we felt when we first learned of our destiny! We have lost friends in the battle, and will most likely lose more. We can’t afford to be patient and waste precious time trying to explain things to this worthless excuse for a Patriarch,” Jon said, waving his hands in Sheldon’s direction.
Sheldon stood with his hands crossed over his massive chest, jowls shaking in rage. He took a few deep breaths before moving back toward the table. He stood next to the fallen chair and waited for one of his servants to right it before sitting down gingerly, as though ready to flee again.
Jon ignored Morden’s insistent hissing that he sit down at once. Maybe I should show Sheldon how insignificant he really is.
“If it wasn’t for this man who has vouched for you, you would all be out of the city and off my island within the hour. But even his influence only goes so far,” Sheldon said as he took a large gulp from his mug.
Morden groaned inwardly. They would never be able to convince the Patriarch of the danger if he refused to listen. But Morden had to admit that the idea of strange beings made of metal destroying Astra sounded preposterous. If it wasn’t for his gut feeling and the fact that he had spent time with these people, he would never have believed it either.
“What they speak of is true. And if you don’t act to warn the people now, they will be destroyed when these machines come across the Mishrae Hills. Surely you have heard the rumors the Nomads are spreading,” Morden said.
Sheldon nodded reluctantly. “But what they speak of isn’t possible! There’s nothing on this world that could have made something like that which they speak of.”
“They are not of this world, your Grace.”
Sheldon looked at Saemus and narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, young man?”
“The Mekans are from another world that exists far from here. They are traveling to many worlds, digging for metal and such, and by the time they are finished mining each planet, they end up destroying it.”
“And somehow you lot are supposed to save everyone, eh? And how’s that exactly?”
“We’re not sure. There is a prophecy but it’s unclear as to what we were supposed to do. We only know that we are supposed to do it.”
“So these things are here and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Sheldon pursed his lips. “And I’m supposed to tell my people that they need to leave everything behind and head west, is that right? Flee from these things that only you have supposedly seen? You said yourself that you don’t even know how to stop them. And this claim that they are actually from somewhere else...” Sheldon shook his head ruefully. “You can’t expect me to believe such nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense! Fleeing is the people’s best chance for survival. And we’re not giving up yet. We may yet come out on top. But we need time: time to study the prophecy, time to figure out how to use the weapons available to us to take them down,” Saemus said.
“I’ll think on what you said and make my decision after speaking to my advisors,” Sheldon said.
Saemus stared hard at the man. “That’s it? You’ll discuss this and then figure out what
to do? All while knowing those blasted machines could be crawling over your doorstep any moment?”
“I have made my decision. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other petitioners.” Sheldon snapped his fingers and a servant ran to lead the group from the palace.
“Please, your Grace—” Morden began.
“I have heard your words and I will act on them after discussing these things with my advisors. Would you have a Patriarch act rashly? Rest assured that the decision I make will be undertaken after long and careful thought.”
Sheldon motioned with a flabby arm and the servant led them from the room and back to the front of the castle. The clanging sound of the gates closing behind them seemed to signal the doom they all knew was coming.
“We should return to the Fury as soon as possible. There’s nothing more we can do here. Perhaps Mordaen will be more receptive to our words,” Morden said.
“Sheldon won’t be able to ignore the truth for long. It will soon be crawling over his palace to crush him in his ignorance,” Jon said.
“To him, you speak of things that cannot possibly be true. To tread carefully is not ignorance.”
“He’s going to wait so long that his people will die needlessly!”
“All we can do is pray to the good Spirits that he decides to order the people west before the Mekans arrive.”
ASTRA
“THERE ARE THE STRANGE RED ROCKS,” said Moylir.
Gerok looked to where she pointed and nodded. He could make out the ochre and brown rocks as they thrust upward from the ground.
“We can easily make it there before the sun sets,” Gerok said as he took the lead.
He kept up the pace as he led his two comrades to the portal that would take them back home. He ignored the pressure building in his chest. It felt as though a giant melgor were sitting there and forcing the air from his lungs. His body was warmer than it should be, but he didn’t know how to cool it off. Back home, he would have immersed himself in water or sought the shade, but they didn’t have time for that.
Anxiety lay heavily on Gerok but, rather than slowing his steps, it somehow lent them speed. The Stroh Hills grew closer with each passing mile. As did the moment when they would have to return home and face what they already feared had come to pass.
The lack of contact with anyone on Volgon sent chills down his spine, the likes of which he had not felt since he had first arrived on Volgon and faced his first Gorkon. There had been times since becoming a Guardian that his belly had tightened and his skin had crawled with fear. The fear had unhinged him more than the thought of facing the massive Mekans single-handedly. It left a coppery taste in his mouth he wasn’t used to and never wanted to experience again.
Gerok stopped in front of the opening leading to the portal, breath rattling in his lungs. The world tilted strangely and he yelped in surprise when he landed hard on the ground.
Why am I on the ground?
“Premier, what happened?” Feeror asked, falling back to the familiar form of address.
Gerok tried to answer but his teeth chattered so badly he couldn’t form words.
“His skin feels much warmer than it should, even in these strange bodies,” Moylir said.
“These bodies are so weak. He must have some sort of sickness,” Feeror said.
“What can we do?” Moylir asked.
“Contact the Kromins and have them communicate with the Astrans. Perhaps they will know what to do,” Voilor suggested.
Feeror made contact with the Kromins orbiting the planet in their travel pod and explained what he needed them to do.
--We contacted the one you call Saemus. He says it sounds like the lung sickness--
--Is there any way to fix it?--
--Negative--
Feeror clenched his teeth. He wished to return to Volgon through the portal but he knew they couldn’t take Gerok back in this condition. Once it was known that he was ill, he would be taken to the third level of the Colony and put to death.
Better that than to die a slow death here.
“We cannot stay here,” Moylir said as though reading his mind.
“What would you have me do? Leave our Premier behind while we return home?” Feeror said.
“It’s what he would want.”
“Why don’t you try asking me yourself?”
The three Volgon warriors looked down at Gerok. “I may be sick but I can still hear.” He coughed up a large glob of phlegm laced with bright red blood.
“What are your orders?” Feeror asked.
“You three must return home. I’ll remain behind.”
“You won’t last the night,” Feeror said.
“I’m not dead yet. Don’t be surprised to see me waiting here for you when you return.”
Feeror clenched his jaw and refused to say anything more. He knew his Premier would be dead soon. His skin was already turning gray and his eyes were losing focus as he fought for each breath. Feeror met the eyes of his fellow Chosen, each one knowing what Feeror was thinking without a word having to be spoken. Moylir and Voilor nodded once, a single dip of the head, a sign that they not only agreed but thought he should be the one to do it.
Feeror glanced down at Gerok and sighed in relief when the man managed a nod. It wasn’t right for a warrior to die slowly and in pain. Better to have a quick death. He positioned himself behind his Premier, grabbing his head with arms that bulged with muscles.
“Tell our ancestors about our fight with the Mekans. Regale them with stories of Seelyr and Kyron,” Feeror said as he wrenched his arms sharply to the side, breaking Gerok’s neck with one fluid movement.
The Volgons performed the burial ritual, dancing naked around Gerok’s burning corpse, singing of their Premier and his mighty deeds, asking the warrior ancestors of the past to welcome him into their hallowed halls. When there was nothing left of the body, they got dressed and walked back to the portal cave.
As he faced the portal, Feeror fingered the piece of cloth on his arm, the only thing remaining of his mate, Gwen. Thoughts of her filled him with emotions he wasn’t used to.
He was a warrior. It was a part his soul. Fighting was what he did best. It called to him, made him feel alive and useful. Several females had made it clear they wished to become his mate but he had refused them all. There was no time for a mate when there were Gorkons to kill. When he had heard about the prophecy and that he was one of the many slated to fight the Mekans, his blood had soared at the idea of facing an enemy more powerful than anything the Volgons had ever known.
And yet, one tiny dwarf girl had managed to wrap his big warrior heart around her tiny finger. Feeror smiled when he recalled their first meeting and how she had nearly choked the life out of him. She had been fierce and strong, and had wanted to learn the ways of his people.
She’s gone now.
“Are we going to stand here all day?” Voilor asked.
Feeror ignored his comrade’s words and ducked into the opening. His eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly. He walked to the far end of the chamber toward the rock face that housed the portal chamber.
As soon as they were in front of it, symbols began to appear as though written by some invisible hand in red-gold ink. After finding the symbol for Volgon, Feeror took a deep breath and passed into the portal.
VOLGON
FEEROR EMERGED FROM THE PORTAL, gasping for breath. The first thing he noticed was the blinding sunlight.
The second was the silence.
He moved away from the portal and spotted the armor that they had left behind on their last trip here. He donned it quickly, senses alert for any sign of life. The plasma rifle and side-arm lying next to the armor had no charge.
How much time has passed?
Voilor and Moylir emerged from the portal, sagging to their knees and gasping. Feeror felt a surge of pride that he had managed to keep his feet. He bared his fangs in a cocky grin.
Feeror moved away from the wall that housed the portal
. It should have been surrounded by the remnants of an old building. Instead, the wall stood on its own, surrounded by crushed rubble. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of the Mekans and the damage they had done. The ground was broken: chasms gave way to falling blackness, and huge gouges emitted steam that rose slowly, disappearing into the atmosphere.
How is this one wall still standing?
Voilor and Moylir walked up beside him, scanning the terrain for danger. Though their rifles were as dead as his, they held them at the ready, taking comfort in the weight in their hands.
“There’s nothing left of the old city. It’s gone. Except for that.” Moylir pointed to the wall. The symbols faded.
“Let’s head toward Colony 3,” Feeror said.
He once again took the lead, walking quickly yet still scanning the landscape for potential dangers. The silence felt wrong somehow. Volgon has been quiet for many centuries, ever since the fighting with the Gorkons had driven them underground. But the patrols and melgor that still scratched their living from the surface should still have created some noise.
Now, there was nothing, not even the whisper of a breeze.
Did the Mekans destroy that too?
“What’s that?”
Moylir moved toward an object lying on the ground. She knelt down next to the familiar form of a dead Volgon, bones shining white in the sun, tiny bits of flesh still clinging to the upper and lower limbs, several ribs, and the skull.
“He must have died long ago for the bones to be this clean,” Feeror said.
“Agreed. I think it’s obvious what we will find at Colony 3. Perhaps we should return to Astra and help the others,” Moylir suggested.
“We need to be sure. Perhaps some of our people may yet live. We may even be able to salvage some of the equipment for future use,” Feeror said as he stood.
“We can try to find more plasma rifles. They may do us no good here but our friends on Astra could use them,” Moylir said.
She wished to return to the peaceful planet. The thought of those machines ravaging that world as they had done to this one was unbearable. She had begun to look on the other girls as younger siblings. A desire to protect them against harm surged through her veins.
