by Dan O'Brien
“There is a path that winds through the canyons and forests so that you do not have to brave the peaks. It will take us a day and night once we reach them. We should camp once inside the cover of the mountains. Walk through this day that is dawning and find rest that night. We should move on again at dawn.”
Marlowe felt a wave of sadness.
He mused about the uselessness of death, of ambition. What was it that drove the assassin to pursue him? Had he committed a crime, some offense against Orion? The battle at Cerulean Dreams had been unfortunate, but it was not unprovoked. What had set into motion their game, their pursuit of him?
Looking over his shoulder at Dana, he knew why.
It was because of her. This all began with her. He felt deep in his being that it would inevitably end with her as well.
The shaman looked at the seriousness upon Marlowe’s face with concern. “Do not fear, Alexander. I know my way. I will not lead you astray.”
Marlowe looked at him.
“I don’t doubt your knowledge, Mograli. I’ve just begun to wonder if what I pursue is truly worth the carnage that has been left in my wake.”
*
Armon watched as the legion of OrionCorps moved like a well-oiled machine. Scattering across the hills just before the village, they set suppressive fire and another cadre of men found their way closer to the wall.
The death of the corporal had been necessary. Many of the men were uncertain where the blast had come from. Had it been from the villagers, drawing him in only to slaughter him? Or had it been a member of OrionCorps? It mattered little. Once the volleys began, soldiers fought without thought.
Creeping around the side of the company, he followed the rust-colored hills that ran parallel to the wall. Watching as the image of his soldiers became smaller and smaller, the sound of their gunfire became more and more distant.
He had wished the corporal dead.
There was something about the man that unsettled Armon. Orionians: the very nature of their beings was a constant irritant to the assassin. He abhorred their lack of appetite for destruction.
Survival to them was not an individual struggle, but a collective effort. In theory, it was the very point of Orion to inspire such sentiments. But in times of war and violence, Armon found himself disgusted with the lot of them.
The inner wall of Shadowfall ran for a great distance parallel to the Wall of Shadows, though no longer was it aptly named. Armon picked his way closer, scaling the wall and finding his way into the village. He would pursue Marlowe without them. Their massacre would serve as proper cover for his pursuit.
*
Holarian, leading a hundred spear-carrying men, moved around the rear flank of the OrionCorps legion. Arrow-infested dead lay all about their feet as they carried themselves stealthily across the sand. A soldier sat, back against a mound, an arrow having found a home through his eye socket.
He was still breathing.
With a stern nod of his head, Holarian gave the signal.
The sharpened end of a spear pierced the man’s throat, a gurgle escaping amidst a fountain of blood. He fell to the side, his hands grasping at his throat.
The river was too powerful to stem.
Looking ahead, the sentry saw the backs of the OrionCorps legion, their numbers dwindling by the moment. His men spread thin into a single line. They lifted their feet deliberately.
Spears held out in front of them.
Holarian dropped his hand.
With a mighty cry, they drove the spears into the backs of the soldiers. Pushing with all their strength, the men led by Holarian drove the slowly dying men into the next line of soldiers, trampling them.
The erratic, frightened gunfire ripped overhead, tearing away their concentration on the village. Holarian pounded his chest with his free hand. As quickly as they had come, the spear-carriers of Shadowfall disappeared into the night.
*
Sephan watched from the cover of the inner wall as Holarian and his men diverted the attention of the OrionCorps soldiers. The archers behind him all wore the grim expressions of war. Faces painted in red and white lines, they were fearsome.
The Elder of Shadowfall dropped his arm, arrows loosed on his command. Men fell, their cries frozen in the night. One by one, the soldiers of Orion fell prey to the tactical wisdom of a desert tribe. As the night twinkled overhead, Sephan thought of his daughter, of the strange man Alexander Marlowe.
Had they reached the mountains yet?
Would he find what he was looking for?
He stepped through the arch of Shadowfall with sadness in his heart, his footfalls precise so that he did walk in the blood of his enemies or across the corpses of those who would soon be honored. A grand pyre would be built and burned at dawn. Such a passing ensured that their essence would reach their ancestors.
*
Armon had heard the desperate cries of his men. He knew that this desert tribe had been prepared. It all mattered very little now. He had escaped and would continue to pursue Marlowe.
As he passed through the west end of the village, a powerful smell touched his nostrils. He saw footprints scattered in one direction and the other. Some led back and into the village, and then at least three more led farther into the desert.
Marlowe had acquired another companion.
Unless the girl had not survived? No, such a thought was foolishness. Babylon would have known if the girl was gone. They would have warned him, called him off of the chase. Without the girl, Marlowe was little more than a malfunction.
The night was growing lighter. There was a sliver of light on the horizon. Were the nights shorter? He couldn’t be certain anymore. This hunt had cost him many things. He could not allow it to consume his charge as well.
The tracks were visible.
The night air had dusted over them, but there was still a lingering trace of what they had been. The fluorescent blue light along his arm caught his attention. Touching the indicator, the image of Lord Niehl flooded into view once more.
The voice was dry, irritable. “Brother Armon.”
Armon bowed his head.
“Lord Niehl, has something happened?”
The hood shook. “I have received information that you were in contact with Sister Shasta. Is this true?”
Armon thought of the woman he had not seen in near a year. “No, Lord Niehl. The only transmissions I have received have been from you about the pursuit of the fugitive Orionian and the viable. What is this regarding?”
The hood assumed an air of suspicion. “A transmission was intercepted to your private theater. There were nearly two minutes of conversation recorded. She presented some very sensitive information.”
Armon cursed himself.
He had not wanted to reveal that Marlowe had incapacitated him and stolen his pack with his private theater within. “My personal transceiver was stolen, sir. When I confronted Marlowe in the atrium, he escaped. He took with him my pack. It was how I was able to track him into the desert.”
The visage of Lord Niehl shuddered, lines scattering through the transmission. “You allowed an Orionian access to a Babylonian transmission device. Have you lost your mind, Brother Armon? Do you not realize how dangerous that was?”
Armon cleared his throat.
The desert had made him sharp with his tongue. He paused to refrain from commenting snidely. “It was a calculated risk. One that I was forced to make when he acquired my pack.”
The image of Niehl turned away. There was someone else in the room with him. He nodded several times before turning back to Armon. “There is concern about the viable. That perhaps she may have contracted the plague outside of Orion without the injections. Can you confirm or deny this?”
Armon felt his hands begin to sweat.
A nauseating smell invaded his mind as he continued to walk. It reeked of death. “No, sir. I have not had visual contact with the viable in some time. Any information on her health would be speculation at t
his point.”
“If she has been compromised, then the commands have changed. If she is beyond usefulness, terminate. As for Marlowe, he has become too much of a risk. Returning him to Orion is no longer an option. His flight into the desert has made things too difficult. He is to be removed.”
Armon smiled.
“What about the first site?”
Lord Niehl’s voice slipped. The assassin’s knowledge had forced a stumble. “What are you talking about, Brother Armon? There is no first site. It is Orion. It has always been Orion.”
Armon smiled wickedly. “You may want to explain that to the families of the thousand dead men lying on the ruins of Ark. I recognized it immediately. This is a lie that will be difficult to cover, Lord Niehl.”
The pause was excruciating.
Armon knew that he had the fool reeling. His abhorrent dislike for bureaucracy was beginning to extend to even his own people. When the man’s voice returned, it was far more docile. “Ark is a fossil, Brother Armon. You needn’t concern yourself with it.”
Armon nodded, power reestablished in his favor. “And the Tower? It is safe to assume at this point that he will reach the Tower. What if he comes to understand? He might already be more powerful than I am.”
“The Tower must remain standing. It powers Babylon as well as Cerulean Dreams. Kill them all if you must, but the Tower must not fall.”
Armon understood.
The preservation of Babylon justified many things.
“I will see it done.”
The sneer upon Lord Niehl’s face, though hidden by the hood, was not lost in his voice. “Do not bother contacting me again, Brother Armon, unless it is to tell me that you have retrieved the girl. Or killed Marlowe. Or that they are all dead and the Tower stands.”
Armon depressed the indicator, canceling the transmission with an angry huff. Looking up from his arm, he saw the source of the smell: the carcass of the Mimic, upturned in the desert. Legs drawn in, the stained sand around the creature polluted the air with its stink.
What manner of creature could kill something of this magnitude? As he began to jog forward, he realized that he no longer saw the tracks he had been following. Whose handiwork was this? He wondered that for some time as he dashed through the night.
XXXI
T
he pyre was enormous. Erected at the center of the village, it was stocked with bundles of wood and brush taken from the surrounding desert. To build funeral pyres often meant buildings had to be dismembered. This was very much the case.
They used the clothing of the dead soldiers for kindling, tossing their bodies atop the smoldering flame. The smell would have been unbearable, but the people of Shadowfall did not wish the sending of their dead to be a sordid affair. Incense and herbs were burned, mingling with the pale stink of death.
Sephan watched the flames.
The scorched burn on his arm was wrapped in bandages and wiped with salve from the shaman’s belongings. Medicine women attended the wounded––something that would have been Mograli’s responsibility, but the shaman had chosen journey over war.
The Elder did not begrudge him for his choice.
Near a thousand dead, less those taken by the Mimic, and a handful of villagers burned that day. Their bodies danced into the morning air. The crimson and orange flash of the sunrise was beautiful.
Holarian stood beside his Elder.
“I do not think he was among them.”
Sephan looked at the man. “Yes, he would have stood out from the rest. These men were not dissimilar from one another.”
The villagers were given individual pyres, the lot of OrionCorps soldiers a single one. It was not meant as disrespect, but instead that there were not enough supplies to make that many individual funeral pyres.
The Elder of Shadowfall moved to the far edge of the fires, Holarian following. He stood before the heat of the flame, the pyre for David of Orion. “I do not think they were bad men, Holarian. Fools, but they reminded me of Marlowe. Especially the one called David. There were such similarities.”
Holarian shrugged, closing his eyes from the heat of the flames. “They came from the same city. It is not unlikely that they would share many traits.”
Sephan shook his head.
“It was more than that. There was the same look in his eyes, the same careful consideration and peace that I had seen in Marlowe despite what he was forced to face. There is something about this that Marlowe has yet to understand.”
Holarian watched the flickering of the fire. “Do you think he will find what he is looking for across the mountains?”
Sephan looked at the covered body of David. “I do, though what he finds will hurt him deeply. I can only hope that whatever he finds will ease his heart, so that he can once again find the peace that I saw in his eyes.”
Holarian nodded and together they stood as the fire burned, sending rings and columns of smoke high into the air. The dead reached into the skies to greet their ancestors, to find their path now that their time with the living had expired.
*
The mountains were majestic.
The air had changed around them. The earth beneath their feet was no longer sand, but hard-packed dirt that was matted with green moss. The trail that Mograli had meant to set them on was apparent.
Wide and even earth marked its way through the heavy foliage of the trees overhead. The damp sound of running water was in the distance. Marlowe moved out ahead of them, carrying his stained axe in his left hand.
The coolness of the air removed smell, distorted it with the fragrances of nature. A broad smile was painted across Dana’s sickly features. Her condition had not changed. Throbbing skull, upturned stomach, and the nagging feeling that her muscles were growing weak continued to ail her.
“This is beautiful,” she marveled as she walked beside Sephes. Wild growing vines that had found symbiosis with the trees and created a canopy overhead blocked the slow-starting day.
Sephes looked overhead, seeing the skittering shadow of Icarus flying above. Her companion had not returned to her arm; not once since she had begun her care of Dana did Icarus return to her side. He remained vigilant in the skies, but she was uncertain for whom any longer.
“How far, Mograli?” she called to the shaman.
The shaman was walking a few steps behind Marlowe, his eyes wandering the forest that he had not seen for some time. “We will camp at the center of this range at nightfall and by the afternoon, we will have reached the coast that Alexander seeks,” he replied, not turning to the girl.
Sephes had not smiled since Dana had fallen ill, but the presence of so much nature made her smirk. Slow progress toward the characteristic smile of her people.
“Why do you no longer smile?” Dana asked as a fit of coughing overtook her.
Sephes frowned, steadying Dana with her stronger arms. “That is why. You are not well. You chose to journey when you needed care. I cannot be happy knowing that you are in pain.”
Dana grimaced. “Just because I am ill does not mean I am unhappy, Sephes.” She grabbed the girl’s arm tenderly. “Look at this world around us, Sephes. I am happy. I am with friends, people who care about me. No matter my health, to see this through brings me more joy than lying in a bed would ever bring.”
Sephes did not look convinced.
“I still do not like that he made you come.”
Dana stopped, the action taking a moment to capture the attention of Sephes. “What did you say, Sephes?”
Her eyes were hard.
She pointed at Marlowe. “It is his fault. He dragged you into the desert. When you fell ill, he used your connection to each other to take you away from me, to make you travel when you were not well.”
Dana looked at the girl incredulously. “You may be grown, Sephes, but you are still a child. A naïve, spoiled, selfish little girl,” she spoke, her voice grating. The anger made her feel weak, vulnerable.
Sephes shook her hea
d, grabbing Dana by the shoulders. “You should not get upset, Dana. Think of your health.”
Dana knocked her hands away furiously, her lips trembling. “You don’t know anything. It is my fault we are here. I made Marlowe leave everything behind. I forced us into the desert. When I was sick, he looked for a way to help, not to wallow in his pity and selfishness. Marlowe has always been kind and considerate to me.”
She cried then, falling forward.
Sephes reached out to hold her, but once again Dana batted away her hands. “No,” she cried forcibly. “Until you can see past your foolishness, I don’t want you to touch me.”
Sephes reeled back as if stricken. “Dana….”
Their conversation had drawn the attention of both Mograli and Marlowe, who stood by impassively. The huntress looked at them, her eyes full of tears as well. Her powerful stance slumped in sadness.
“It is not your fault we are here, Dana,” spoke Marlowe roughly.
She looked at him teary-eyed.
“How can you say that?”
Marlowe moved forward, placing a gentle hand on Sephes’ shoulder. “I chose to help you, to protect you. Just as Sephes has. She is young, but she only wishes what is best.”
Sephes looked up at Marlowe.
Her words trembled. “Thank you.”
Mograli moved closer as well. “We need to keep moving if we are to avoid your hunter. That is if he was able to escape Shadowfall.”
Marlowe thought of Armon. “He would not have engaged Sephan and the villagers outright. He would have found a way through. This is not yet done for him.” He turned. “Nor is it for me.”
He stalked forward again, followed by Mograli and then Sephes and Dana. Their tear-soaked faces dissolved into small grins and giggles.
The day was uneventful. The path wove into the mountain, inevitably climbing, as it must. The air grew cooler, yet Marlowe needed no more clothing.
