by Scott Hale
She threw herself onto the church floor, gasping. Like an insect caught in the light, R’lyeh crawled ahead and hid beneath a pew. With Serra came Deimos and Lucan; they pulled one another from the secret place. The Beetle and the Piranha stood behind the altar, stabbing and shooting down into the doorway as the flesh fiends hissed and spat, trying to get out.
“Vrana,” Deimos grunted as he propped himself against the altar. “Help me.”
The Raven did as she was told. The flame, which still burned above the satin cloth, wriggled as Deimos wrapped his hands around it, and as Vrana wrapped hers around his. Together, with what little strength they had left, they pushed the flame down, into the altar, and out of existence. Immediately, the door in the floor slammed shut, taking with it three heads, eight hands, and any hope the flesh fiends had for escaping isolation that day.
They gave themselves a moment to catch their breath and clean their wounds, and then they were gone. As they exited the church, they saw that large portions of the Northern District had collapsed, leaving massive piles of expensive rubble and choking clouds of dust. Looking to the furthest stretch of the northeastern wall, they found huge splotches of blood, a backsplash from the beast’s birthing.
“Blix!” Deimos shouted, and from the sky, the crow wheeled toward them, until it was close enough to be touched. Deimos whispered a message into the bird’s ear, and then he was off, back the way they’d come, back to Caldera.
They paused again in the market, which appeared as though a great wind had swept through it, leaving everything in a further state of disarray. Though they could not see the creature, they could hear it, feel it as it seemed to pace in debate somewhere outside Geharra’s walls. Lucan took a seat at a workbench, removed his mask, and took a deep breath; Serra, without being asked, came over and changed the Beetle’s stained dressings. R’lyeh, like the Beetle, was quiet as she picked pebbles and splinters from her feet and palms. Now that they were out and in the light, the girl appeared much smaller, more fragile. Whatever barrier the girl had put between herself and the events around her seemed to be working, but Vrana knew it wouldn’t be long until it eventually fell.
“About two hundred and fifty years ago,” Deimos started as he teased flesh fiend bone fragments from his calf, “there was a man by the name of Victor Mors. He was a scientist, a philosopher.” Deimos lifted the bandages over the places where his flesh was missing. “He studied many subjects, but toward the end of his life, he became fascinated with the religions of the Old World. Six Pillars—now Penance—was a greater power back then, and as a citizen of Elin—now Eldrus—he feared them.”
Serra and Lucan looked up at their leader. Vrana could see that they had heard this story once before, but appeared to have forgotten it or filed it away as farce. R’lyeh continued to work at her cuts, minding the neighboring bruises as she went. The hurt was a distraction her mind needed to keep from killing itself.
Deimos struggled to speak. “Victor Mors,” he said finally, “felt that there was some truth in their tales of the end of the world.”
Fresh blood trickled down the Bat’s leg. He stood up, knowing that it wouldn’t be long until he or the others wouldn’t be able to if they kept sitting. He hurried through the market, leaving a trail of his misery for his companions to follow. “He did not believe it was something that was inevitable—rather, that it was something that could be provoked. Victor called this the apocalypse, using the oldest definition of the word.”
“What does it mean if not…?” R’lyeh asked, wincing as she tried to keep up.
“‘To make known that which has been hidden in a world of lies,’” Deimos said. “He felt that this would then bring about the end of all things.”
They rounded a corner and slipped into an alleyway. The gore-beast’s rumblings grew louder, almost deafening. A hot blast of pungent air stole through the alley, wilting their senses.
“According to Victor, it was the supernatural world that has been hidden.”
They exited the alleyway into the Eastern District, where its portion of the great wall loomed ahead, with a meandering, lumbering shadow darkening its highest walkway.
“He believed that the end would come not when this was known but when those who were aware of its existence realized it could be manipulated.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.” Vrana stumbled as Lucan fell into her. She lifted him up and handed him off to Serra. “The supernatural isn’t a secret. The Corrupted know it and see it every day.”
“There are many things still unknown in the fathomless spaces, things that, unlike the merfolk, the world will never be prepared for.”
“The Worms of the Earth,” Lucan said, almost laughing. “Deimos, not even the elders seemed convinced when they told us this story.”
Serra sighed and grunted: They haven’t seen what we have.
“I didn’t think much of it either, Lucan, but now I see no other explanation.”
“Worms? What the hell are they?” Vrana asked. “Are you saying that’s what came out of the pit?”
Deimos thought on the question Vrana had posed to him and then nodded. “The Worms are not dangerous by themselves. They answer only to those who’ve birthed them and do only as they will. The Worms must be sustained by death, or they will die.”
R’lyeh batted an insect off of her mask. “How many are there?”
“As many as there needs to be, at least that is what Victor Mors wrote. They are weapons, and when a nation summons one, the next nation will do the same. You see, it’s like giving a knife to someone who wants desperately to end their life. It is only when humanity is at its lowest, most depraved point that the Worms have a chance of being awoken, because it is depravity that calls them and in which they thrive. They serve their masters, and their masters alone, but only do so to hasten their masters’ destruction.”
“Here’s the knife, kill yourself, stop talking about it and do it,” Vrana said harshly.
“Exactly.” Deimos quickened his pace, crossing through yards and doorways, under bridges and over ledges, until they were at the steps that scaled the Eastern District’s wall. “Their only purpose is to speed up the inevitable.”
“What’s the inevitable?” R’lyeh asked as they climbed the stairs, the rotting wind buffeting their shivering bodies.
“Trauma,” Lucan answered.
Serra grunted: Ruin.
“If that is, in fact, what has happened here, then Penance must decide if they wish to lay claim to what they have done,” Deimos said, leaking blood down the stairs from his wounds.
Vrana felt a dizzy R’lyeh cling to her as they climbed the stairs, the city of Geharra shrinking in their haggard ascent. “Can Penance get away with this?”
“When you hold the keys to heaven, you can get away with anything,” Lucan said, holding Serra’s hand as he spoke.
“Victor may have been wrong. Then again, perhaps Penance knows something we do not.” With all his effort, Deimos brought his flayed leg onto the final step and then waited for the others to join him at the top. “It’s possible this has nothing to do with Victor’s writings. But you do not do as they have done, kill as many as they have, to inadvertently create… that.”
Vrana reached the top of the wall and gasped. The Red Worm sat upon the plains, a swollen mass of blood and bone. The ground below it was black and muddy, the grass brittle and bent. Hundreds of flailing tendrils writhed beneath the creature, drumming the ground in a hungry riot. The Red Worm moved like a centipede as it scurried in quick, unpredictable motions across the plains. Atop its body of rot and disease was a bulbous head with not one face but many, thousands, all stretched across the fleshy pillar in various states of untold agonies. It was difficult to determine how large the Worm was from the wall, but it seemed to stand at least twenty feet high; with one swing of its body, it could smash the whole of Caldera.
“What happened to Victor?” Vrana asked.
“He was murdered.” Dei
mos slid his hands under his mask and rubbed at his face. “Initially, Six Pillars were divided into six quarters, one for each of the surviving faiths. Assassins from the Lillian Quarter came to his study in Elin and cut out his tongue for his blasphemy. Once he had finally drowned in his own blood, they took his writings and disappeared.”
“Luckily, other people had heard his speeches and took note,” Lucan added, his voice distant, as though coming from outside his body. “It’s been so long. We figured, I figured, the original meaning had been lost.” The Beetle trembled. “If he had known, he would have never spoken a word of the things.”
Vrana cringed as she watched animals pad across the plains toward the great moving grave. “What can we do?” The animals howled, yelped, and cried as they put their lips to the blighted ground and paid homage to their new lord of death.
“Nothing,” Deimos said, turning to her. “We will do nothing.”
R’lyeh nodded her head; she’d had enough. She moved her fingers absently through her hair, combing out the blood.
Lucan exhaled so loudly it was as though he had been holding his breath since they first left Caldera. His body went limp, and his armor moaned as it stretched and cracked.
But Vrana knew better, and so did Serra. The Piranha spoke, as he always did, from the deep of his throat: What can we do?
The Bat turned his jagged head to the halcyon sky. Vrana sensed the struggle within him to say the words that needed to be said that none wished to hear. “A convoy comes,” he said somberly, pointing to the eastern horizon, where Penance soldiers rode on ka’thars, their shining plate mail the only hint of their approach. “Lucan and I will go to them and present ourselves as Corrupted. Serra, you will go back to the waterworks and reduce the Crossbreed to ashes. Vrana, R’lyeh…”
He looked at them with consternation, as though their task would be the most difficult. “You will go back to Caldera. You will tell the elders what has happened here. You will not question me. This is what must be done.”
CHAPTER XXI
A red wind ripped across Geharra’s plains, spreading crimson omens where it went. From the great wall, Vrana, R’lyeh, and Serra watched as the Beetle and Bat, holy robes slung over their shoulders, waded through the marsh outside the city. The merfolk welcomed the men into their drowned dominion and then stripped them naked. They took Deimos’ and Lucan’s right arms and weaved a spell into their flesh that left it deeply Corrupted. The men embraced the merfolk as old friends would embrace and then stepped out of the water, to make their way towards the soldiers kicking up dust on the sunburnt horizon.
Serra pulled away from the wall and his companions. Vrana and R’lyeh tried to stop him, by grabbing at his hands and tugging at his heart, but the mute had become deaf to their pleas. They followed him to the Western District, and the Western District welcomed them with salt upon its breath and a rattle in its throat, as thousands of fish bones rolled down its streets. Serra hurried into the waterworks and then wreathed the doorway in fire, so that his companions could not follow after him. They said goodbye as smoke swirled around him, like a shade desperate to be touched, and he said nothing in response, for he had no tongue.
This was three days ago.
Vrana didn’t allow herself or R’lyeh to stop until the city of Geharra had disappeared into the folds of the land. They had little left to eat and had slept even less; so, hours later, they made camp beside a stream and cased the area. In the belly of a hollowed tree, they waited for animals to pass, with Vrana’s ax claiming a rabbit and R’lyeh’s daggers—the Cruel Mother’s talons—two squirrels, and three and a half frogs. The fire they built was weak, barely rising from its cage of kindling, but it was enough to cook the food and, for a moment, silence their stomachs’ rumbling discontent.
The next morning they stripped off all that they wore, found the deepest part of the stream, and cleaned their skin until it was pink and sore. Vrana mixed some of the specimens she had collected for her mother into a soapy wash and scrubbed it into the girl, herself, and their equipment. Despite her best effort, Vrana could still smell the stench of the Red Worm, as though the very memory of it had begun to rot in her mind. She urged R’lyeh out of the stream when they’d finished, but the girl ignored her as she stared silently into the waters that had turned red with the blood of ten thousand.
“I can’t sleep,” R’lyeh said, turning where she lay beside the crackling fire they’d built this night. “It’s all I see.”
Vrana watched as the girl fiddled with the tentacles of her mask and then threw it. Just a few days ago, she had been like R’lyeh, removing the raven’s head whenever she had the chance. Now, like Deimos, she kept it on, even when she wanted desperately to take it off, for without it she was weak, powerless—no better than the remnants of Corrupted that still stained its feathers.
“Were they your friends?” Vrana could tell it hurt R’lyeh to speak, but she was glad she made the effort.
“I think so,” Vrana said. She took off the raven’s head; the girl needed Vrana’s strength, but she also needed the kind of warmth neither a mask nor a fire could provide. “I didn’t know them as well as I would’ve liked. I think Deimos and Lucan will manage, but I’m not sure about Serra.”
“Because of the Crossbreed? That’s what it’s called, right?”
“Yeah.” Vrana pressed herself against the side of a tree and rubbed her back on the bark to snuff out an itch.
R’lyeh sat up, one hand holding her tired head. “Can someone be immune? To the Crossbreed?”
Vrana nodded and said, “I think so. Maybe that’s how you got away.”
R’lyeh lay back down and looked into the deadlights of the starry sky. “I just did what they told me because there were so many of them.” Without asking, she took the faerie silk cloak at Vrana’s feet and threw it over her body. “I tried to help. When we started fighting back, I tried to help. I didn’t just run away.”
“R’lyeh,” Vrana said softly. “The only things we can control are the things we do. Could you have really done things differently?”
“No,” R’lyeh said, shaking her head. “If I didn’t run, the guards would’ve killed me, too.” She stretched out her leg, slid her toe under her mask, and brought it back to hold. “I’m not old enough to have this,” R’lyeh admitted, having already had enough on the subject of Geharra.
Vrana smirked. “Fooled me. And just how old are you?”
“Thirteen,” R’lyeh said, as though she herself were uncertain. “I wanted a mask, so I made one.” She held the shell of the octopus up and scrutinized it. “I think I did a pretty good job.” Her eyes shone with welling tears. “I think I earned it.”
She’ll talk when she’s ready, Vrana thought to herself, but will I? “You know, it’s just supposed to be the head. Not the whole thing.”
“It’s an octopus!” R’lyeh exclaimed. “The whole thing is a head. I think it’s pretty unique. I’m not sure if I can say the same for yours, though.”
Vrana playfully kicked a pile a leaves at R’lyeh. “It’s not like we have a choice. Besides, this raven was something else. I didn’t just fire an arrow into the sky and take the first thing that hit the ground.”
R’lyeh set down her mask. She picked at the dirt with her fingers. “You don’t have a choice? In Alluvia we choose our own aspect—names, too.”
“Not in Caldera,” Vrana said, surprised. “My mother is of the Raven, so it follows that I am one, too.”
Again, R’lyeh sat up, elbow to the ground, hand to her chin. “What would you have picked? If you could’ve?”
Vrana began to braid her own hair, stopping periodically to inhale its fragrance. “A bee: No man can resist my honey.”
R’lyeh’s mouth dropped open. She tried to speak, but her big grin kept getting in the way. And then she was laughing, loud and hard; the kind of laugh that’s mostly forced, but it doesn’t matter much, because it feels good all the same. She wiped the tears from her eyes, b
ut they came right back as she giggled and snorted uncontrollably.
“If things don’t work out as a watcher, I suppose I could always be a comedian.” Now Vrana was laughing, but only because R’lyeh’s laughter was so contagious. There’s still some innocence left in there¸ she thought as she shook her head at the girl.
“I’m sorry.” R’lyeh composed herself. “I thought you were the really serious type.”
“Well, I wish we could’ve met under different circumstances.” Vrana grabbed R’lyeh’s wiggling toe and tickled her foot. “But I’m glad we did.”
R’lyeh pulled back, annoyed but not offended, with the hint of a smile showing beneath her frown.
“What are your elders like?” Vrana asked, changing the subject, not wanting to let the girl in too close, too quickly.
“Smarter than the rest of us, or at least that’s what they say,” R’lyeh joked. “I don’t know. They weren’t around. But they were nice. They… they’re the ones who sent my mom and dad to Eld… before Penance came.” She lowered her head; she sounded sad, but there was something else behind the sadness, something like a lie. “What about the elders in your village?”
“Anguis, Nuctea, and Faolan… I haven’t decided how I feel about them yet.” She looks up to me, Vrana thought, and what she sees she may become. “They’ve done a lot of good for Caldera, but for some reason, they, along with everyone else, neglected to mention just how many Corrupted and their cities are in the North.”
R’lyeh looked at Vrana, dumbfounded. A log snapped in the campfire, and a hundred burning ashes flew upward, threatening to singe the fabric of the sky. “That’s really fucking stupid.” R’lyeh covered her mouth and snorted: She was already more Vrana than Vrana had realized. “I mean, why?”
“Our keeper, Aeson—” She paused and felt that terrible happiness his name brought to her. “He told me once the elders hold back information so that we aren’t biased, so that we can figure some things out for ourselves. But he wasn’t talking about Geharra, Eldrus, or Penance.”
