by T. C. Edge
“Exactly,” I say.
He laughs.
“Well, nothing like that. His desire to serve and save the Savants is clear and profound. It’s what drives him more than anything.”
“Really? I would have thought his ego would be doing that.”
“Savants don’t really have egos, though, do they? They serve a function and perform a duty. It just so happens that Director Cromwell’s is to build the profile of his people, same as us. His methods are, well, questionable. But then, Savants hardly care for that.”
“They sure don’t. Not all of them anyway. Lady Orlando or Adryan would never do what Cromwell’s done. Nor would Burns, or loads of others I assume.”
“Well, yeah there’s a spectrum of empathy, obviously. Then again, we’re not so different. Lady Orlando did order the High Tower to be destroyed, and most of us were perfectly happy to see it fall. He kills us…we kill them. No one’s really innocent.”
“I guess not. But let’s not compare crimes. I mean, whatever way you look at it, he’s been the one who’s destroyed so many lives. We’re just reacting to that.”
“That’s true. In a way, we’re two very different species now, fighting for dominance when, maybe…we should be working together. Who knows, perhaps Cromwell’s seen the light now and seen what we’re capable of. Maybe he really does want to work together from now on.”
“Pfft, unlikely,” I huff. “Surely the idea of that sounds repellent to you? You’ve worked for years to topple his regime and free the city…”
“And now we have, partly at least. The city’s under our control. We have found some common ground. At the end of the day, Brie, my priority has been in making sure the regular people of the city live free. That’s the number one goal ahead of actually killing Cromwell. We’ve taken out most of the Savants, most of his top leaders. There’s no coming back for him now. The question is whether we show mercy and choose to cooperate, or reignite our war once we’ve dealt with this new threat. Truth be told, we’ve done more than I ever expected. Nothing is really going according to our original plans, and we all just have to wing it from here on out.”
“Well, call me crazy, but I still want that man six feet under…” I grumble.
My brother turns on me, eyes narrow.
“Dismiss that thought, Brie,” he warns. “I know what you’re like, and can’t have you doing something stupid. Remember, the Director is untouchable. If he dies, we’ll have everyone converging on us.”
I counter with an equally deep frown.
“Zander, what do you take me for? You think I’d what, kill Cromwell or something? Don’t be stupid. I know he’s untouchable. I’m just saying, if we get out of this alive, then hopefully events transpire that lead to his death....that’s all I’m saying.”
His glare continues for a moment, and for a second I feel him ready to dart into my thoughts and see them for himself. He refuses the urge, and fills his lungs.
“You really hate him, don’t you? More than me. More than anyone. I wonder why that is…”
“Erm, it’s pretty obviously,” rushes my voice. “He kept me in the damn High Tower, locked to a chair for days! He was going to recondition me and use me, turn me into a Stalker or something. He’s killed and ruined the lives of thousands, tens of thousands of people. And all the people we’ve lost, you and me and everyone…we’ve lost them because of him. Yeah, I hate him, Zander. I wonder why you don’t seem to.”
He watches my rant calmly, and I turn my eyes to the mist covered ground.
“I do hate him,” he says coolly. “But I don’t get overly emotional about it, Brie. You’ll learn eventually to suppress such impulses. Here, let me get in your head and calm you down. I’ll straighten you out…”
“NO!” I say loudly, stepping back. “I don’t want you or anyone in my head again!”
He lifts his hands to calm me.
“All right, just a suggestion. Brie, you need to relax, OK. This isn’t the place for such behaviour.”
I feel like arguing back, but instead suck in a long breath of filtered air and shut my eyes to ease the growing mania in my mind. When I open them up again, several long moments later, I feel a whole lot better.
“You’re right,” I admit. “Sorry. This whole topic just boils my blood. You don’t…get it, Zander.”
“I don’t get it?” he says, the edges of his voice suggesting anger. “Look, this is the last thing I’m going to say on the matter, so listen and listen good. I have been fighting this war for years and years. It has consumed me completely, and trust me when I tell you, I’ve seen and done some terrible things that even you’ll never know about. I do worry, sometimes, that I’ll never have a normal life when this is all over. But I don’t care about that, because I’m a soldier, and this is my life. So don’t tell me I don’t get it, Brie. Don’t say that to me again.”
His words bristle with resentment as they come. And as they come, I understand just why. I stay silent for a moment once he’s finished, slightly cowed by the force of his reaction, before nodding gently and whispering softly.
“I didn’t mean…” I start.
He cuts me off, his voice drawing back.
“It’s OK. Let’s move on and forget it. I understand this is hard for you. I forget how new it all is to you, and I really do get it. But let’s just bury this conversation for now. We’ve got a way to go yet, and can’t be distracted out here in the wild. Agreed?”
I nod and lift a mild, slightly uneasy smile.
“Agreed.”
We press on into the afternoon, hiking and navigating through these parts a constant challenge. As with our very recent trip up the mountains just north of here, I suspect that Kira was a useful ally in traversing these woods, and Zander needs to stop fairly regularly to assess just where we are and make sure we’re headed in the right direction.
For a time, we don’t speak, letting the little discussion dissipate in our minds and any heated feelings cool. It takes some time before we share words again, stopping near a stream to catch our bearings and take a short rest.
“How far?” I ask tentatively.
“Shouldn’t be too long now,” is my brother’s non-committal reply. “You feeling OK?”
“Yeah, fine,” I say. “How about you? The shoulder giving you any discomfort.”
He shakes his head.
“Nah, nothing major. Little bit of trouble with mobility, but that’s all. Should loosen up over the course of the next day or two.”
We continue with a smattering of slightly strained small-talk, listening to the birds chirping and the stream trickling as it meanders through the forest. Mercifully, our conversation is broken by the sound of static.
Zander reaches immediately for his belt and detaches the mobile radio he has with him. He clicks a button, and speaks.
“This is Zander.”
“What’s your progress?” comes the hoarse voice of Beckett on the other line.
“Still working towards Rhoth’s village. No confirmation yet that he’s there. You?”
“Hybrids are gathered,” Beckett says. “We’re about to move beyond the western gate and meet with Colonel Hatcher and the Stalkers. Plan is to head straight for the western border of the forest and set up traps and watch positions. I’ll inform you when I have more information.”
“All right, keep me informed. We’ll hurry on and see if Rhoth wants to join the fun. Out.”
He clicks the radio off and reattaches it to his belt.
“And how far is the village from the border?” I ask. “It’s near the middle, right?”
“Closer towards the west, actually. It’ll be quicker going on that side. The woods are generally thinner towards the western edge.”
“Right, and I guess we can use our Dasher powers if we have to?”
“I’d prefer not to waste energy if we can avoid it. Beckett will travel by wheel for as far as he can go – that’ll be towards the REEF – but will have to go th
e rest of the way on foot. They should have plenty of time to set their positions and form ambushes.”
“And presumably there are Stalker scouts off watching this incoming force. You know, seeing what they’re armed with et cetera?”
Zander nods.
“We should be well informed of their capabilities. Hopefully they won’t expect us to greet them so far from the city.”
“Catch them off guard…”
“Precisely.”
We jump to our feet and press on, Beckett’s update now fuelling us with a little more spring to our step. The inclusion of another voice out here in the wilderness has also served to dismiss any lingering awkwardness due to our previous discussion. It was much needed.
With the shape of the earth undulating, with little rises and falls, small hills and mounds peppering the earth, we eventually arrive at a cluster of rocks, set within a small recess in the earth. Through a passage between tightly packed thickets, Zander leads me on, passing tree and stone and eventually working our way towards a hidden clearing.
My brother stops before we venture on, and turns to me.
“The village is just up ahead,” he tells me. “It’s not walled off like with the Roosters – the natural features do that job for them – but they will have guards set watching the entrance. Let me do the talking, OK.”
“Sure. But won’t they recognise us?”
“It depends who’s on the door. We’ve make progress with the Fangs in recent weeks, but a lot of them hold no love for me.”
“Well, then I think it’s my duty to suggest that I do the talking,” I joke, smirking.
Zander raises a smile.
“Follow me.”
6
The well-concealed track towards the clearing the Fangs call home ends with a passage between two boulders. On first view, there appears to be nothing unusual about it, and certainly no guard in place. Then, as we creep forward with our pulse rifles on our backs and masks removed from our faces, a voice crackles from the foliage.
“Stop right there. We have half a dozen guns on you right now.”
We stop, and I look for the source of the voice. It came from the right, just behind the large boulder by the looks of things. I don’t recognise it, though. I’ve spoken to a fair few of the Fangs by now, but this one seems new to me. Then again, most of Rhoth’s hunting party up in the mountains did die in the battle with the Bear-Skins, so there’s no surprise in that.
“By your garb you come from the big city with all the lights. State your name and business.”
Zander steps a little ahead of me.
“It is Zander of the Nameless and his twin sister, Brie of the same. We come to speak with Rhoth and bring warning.”
“Zander…” says the voice quietly. “Our tribe has lost many men in recent days on account of you. I have lost friends…on account of you.”
The man steps from behind the boulder, sharp eyes staring. He’s well built, quite young, and intense in his countenance.
“It is true, the Fangs have become embroiled with the Nameless recently. We never intended to fight the Bear-Skins, however. That was not on my account.”
“Our people only reignited the war with the Bear-Skins on your account,” counters the tribesman. “In fact, perhaps it is this girl, Brie, who is more to blame. It was she who inspired Bjorn’s ire over in his territory as I hear it. What say you, girl?”
I look to Zander for confirmation to speak. He nods.
“I say that I’m sorry for your losses. But I also say that I count Rhoth and the Fangs as friends and allies, and that he would wish for us to pass. We have urgent news that you need to hear, and that you should already be aware of.”
“Urgent news? You speak of this barbarian army approaching,” says the young man. “We know of this already. You are not the first outsiders to pass this way today. Not even in the last hour…”
“What? What do you mean?” questions Zander fiercely. “Has someone come? Someone from the incoming army?”
The man stares at Zander for a moment but doesn’t speak. Then, from the side, another Fang hurries into view, necklace more readily adorned with an assortment of teeth and claws, face bearded and tanned. He also has a fresh wound down the side of his arm, and I know just why. He was with us only days ago in the mountains. This is a Fang I do know, though his name escapes me.
He steps forward, lifting his hand to wave us on.
“Come, Zander and Brie. You must come now.”
“But I am master of the gate today,” growls the first, younger man.
The older man stares him down.
“Then stay at the gate, Henrik. These twins are our friends, and they are permitted entry. Come,” he says, turning his eyes on us once more.
We don’t need a third invite. Stepping forward, we march on down the track as the younger man called Henrik sets about reiterating his authority once more. He’s shot down again, the older man clearly ranking above him in the village – his necklace makes that apparent if nothing else - and eventually concedes as we press on past him and set our eyes on the settlement ahead.
It’s very unlike the one occupied by the Roosters. Here, all huts and shacks are built more traditionally on the ground, the entire clearing surrounded by natural formations of rocks and thick woods, with the canopy above cleared and presenting the sun an opportunity to bathe the village in its natural yellow light.
It’s larger than I thought it would be as well, stretching away quite far and clearly calling home to several hundred tribespeople at least. While Rhoth lost a few dozen men only days ago, his stocks are still fairly well supplied.
As we move into the village, Zander speaks.
“What’s happening, Larsson?” he questions. “This other guest…who is it?”
The Fang named Larsson stops in his tracks and lowers his voice.
“You were right at the gate,” he says. “It’s a man from the barbarian horde, an envoy. He’s come to treat with Rhoth.”
“What do you mean?” I ask hurriedly. “To what, strike a deal or something?”
Larsson shakes his head.
“I know not,” he says. “Rhoth is speaking with him alone. No one else is permitted entry. I didn’t like the look of the man when he entered. I fear he might be trying to influence Rhoth. It’s good you’ve come, Zander. You can stop this madness. We shouldn’t sell our souls to this devil horde…”
“OK,” says Zander, “lead on Larsson. Take us to them immediately.”
We press on, passing a number of different sized huts, all scantily built from strips of wood, branches, leaves and other natural materials. I see hunters lingering about, much like those I’ve met before. And the women as well, lacking the jewellery that adorns the men’s necks. Instead, they have fang earrings and bracelets, and the children too appear wild and draped in their little furs and pelts.
They all stare as we pass through, whispering to each other. It must be a strange day indeed to have so many guests appear here within their hidden village, Zander and me particularly interesting for how we’re dressed and the glowing pulse rifles that sit fixed to our backs.
In the centre of the village, the largest shack of all is situated. Octagonal in shape and a little more grand than the others, it appears to be some sort of meeting point, a village hall of sorts. Outside, I see additional guards with their old, rusted rifles and spears, a strange amalgamation of the old and new - relatively speaking at least, seeing as their guns are old enough to be considered antiques.
I don’t recognise either of them as they set their eyes on us.
“I need to speak with Rhoth immediately,” says Larsson.
The men look at him and then us. One of them answers.
“Rhoth doesn’t wish to be disturbed. He is in talks with…”
“Yes, I know, that’s just why I’m here. Zander of the Nameless brings news. Now step aside, and let us pass.”
The men look to each other and then at my b
rother. It seems he continues to be a rather divisive figure around these parts, which isn’t surprising given the history between the Fangs and the Nameless. We may have somewhat endeared ourselves to Rhoth and his hunting party recently, but the remainder of the tribe appears less convinced.
Unfortunately, my part in all of this has spread as well, and I’m right there in the same boat alongside him. The presence of Larsson, however, is a blessing. As one of the few Fangs to have been present with us during recent excursions, he’s an ally here in what appears to be quite an inhospitable place.
“I will…take this news to Rhoth,” says one of the guards. “Wait here a moment.”
He steps inside the hut, moving through a doorway made from hanging vines and jingling fangs. My eyes once more peruse the village and watching faces as he goes.
“Is West around?” I ask Larsson, searching for my new friend.
“He’s been down at the river hunting fish,” I’m told. “He should return shortly.”
Within the hut, I hear a familiar growl that I know to be Rhoth’s voice. All goes silent as we listen. A few moments later, the guard returns looking a little sheepish.
“He doesn’t wish to see you,” announces the guard. “He’s in a…foul mood.”
I watch Zander’s lips curl down and his eyes narrow. He locks his gaze on the guard who seems to fall into a sudden reverie, before blinking a few times as a frown descends over his eyes. He shakes his head.
“I…I apologise,” he mutters, drawing a confused gaze from his fellow guard. “I meant to say, Rhoth will be happy to see you. Please, go ahead.”
The other guard seems to grow increasingly perplexed with every word. Meanwhile, Zander merely glances at me and drops a wink. I smile back, considering it lucky he picked out a guard who’s susceptible to his mental manipulations. Around here, I know that’s quite hit and miss.
“Thank you very much,” says Zander magnanimously, stepping towards the door of hanging vines as Larsson and I follow quickly behind him.
We enter into a dark and quite humid place, carpeted with all sorts of furs and pelts and with a fire in the centre that spills smoke up through a gap in the roof. The flickering light gives form to the large shape of Rhoth, sitting on a chair fashioned from the trunk of a tree, a number of gashes painting his skin from recent battles.
