Both hemispheres of that brain belonged to a singular consciousness that had been split in two and imprisoned to prevent any deviation. The bifurcated mind acted as an anchor across time and space, one reality that existed in two separate locations simultaneously, allowing a gateway to be opened across its corpus collosum. It was a slave toiling away forever in permanent isolation, its full potential a mathematical product of its perfect horror.
As this realization took hold, Caleb attempted to shout for help but only produced a malformed bark, a sickly, convulsive thing that even he found unintelligible. His breaths came and went chaotically, and the mad pistoning of his heart once again thrummed throughout his flesh. Cold sweat beaded on his skin, and electric fear strobed across his muscles like a rolling thunder storm. The idea of standing occurred to him, but his legs wouldn’t hold him.
Within seconds, he found Bibbs standing above him with concern and confusion knitting his brow, and all Caleb could do was shakily point toward the anchor with a pale, tremulous hand.
Bibbs could see that something was wrong but couldn’t tell exactly what. He gave a look to the wounded men still scattered across the clearing then turned with reluctance toward the damaged anchor, and it was at that moment that Caleb and Bibbs both heard a deep and furious sound out in the distance, like the lowing of some demonic beast.
“What fresh hell,” Caleb croaked.
Bibbs turned away from the anchor and toward the source of the noise, and in that instant, Caleb saw something in the young interfector’s eyes that he’d never once seen before. It was naked fear. In another breath, it was replaced by cold resolve and determination, but its damage was already done.
Caleb somehow managed to stand and he followed Bibbs’ gaze toward the North. There upon the distant ridge waited a party of Kremak braves mounted on Ronthir, agile beasts which looked like nothing so much as massive panthers with great tusks and glistening blue-black skin.
Their chief paced out ahead of them on the back of a shaggy, six-legged monster with a face full of tentacles. Like his fellows, the chief’s body was encased in a jagged bony carapace whose plates overlapped like a suit of armour, and his head appeared as a great horned skull, a death’s head with hollow eye-sockets and two bulky rows of teeth. He’d been painted head to toe in primary colours, broad strokes of childlike vibrance, a garish match for his battle-standard which whipped about in the growing wind.
His mount reared back on its hindmost legs. The tentacles surrounding its maw churned and the horrible call again echoed out across the valley. As the beast came back down, the chief’s dark gaze seemed to lock onto Caleb, and the boy could feel the weight of it like the judgment of an angry father.
“Stand fast,” Bibbs barked. His right arm burst into blinding blue-white flame up to the shoulder, and his eyes burned like amber stars in the dead of night. The instaneous draw of energy was like a sudden whirlpool, so fierce it nearly knocked Caleb back to the ground.
Quaking, Caleb unshouldered his bow and nocked an arrow. “We should run,” he said without pride or hesitation.
Bibbs thrust back his shoulders and the last emotion washed from his face. Hot winds twisted up and away from his blazing arm, and in Caleb’s eyes, he suddenly looked for all the world like a wrathful god made furious flesh and bone.
“Our men need us,” the god of hellfire said. “We have to hold until help arrives.”
It was madness, of course. Two green apprentices–one a virtual invalid–couldn’t stand against a Kremak warparty. These were the ancient enemy of the Imperium… heretics… bloody DragonKin. A band that size could overcome a full revenant cohort; two boys wouldn’t even slow their rampage.
It was madness but of the most heroic sort, the kind a boy like Bibbs had no doubt dreamed of since he took his first stalwart breath. As Caleb lifted his bow and shakily took aim, he knew deep down inside that this was the right thing to do even if it meant certain death. A solemn oath had bound him to this duty, and the lives of his friends and compatriots now depended on his willingness to shoulder it.
The shaggy beast’s tentacles once again surged and its terrible call sounded across the valley. Upon its back, the Kremak chief urged it on with a lash of its reins, and together they charged, battle-standard held in one armoured hand and curving bonesword at ready in the other. A blur of many legs galloped down the grassy hillside and the rest of the warband followed close in the swelling cloud of dust.
“Steady,” Bibbs said.
And Caleb remained as steady as he could, despite the thumping in his chest, the quaking in his knees, and the inescapable feeling that shards of glass were flying at him from every direction. He sighted down his outstretched arm and the vicious monsters awaited him there, inhuman and hungry for blood, swiftly approaching while sparks rose up around them like the embers of crackling campfires.
Just as steady as he could…
There was a curious thing about Caleb Gedley, a personality defect of which he was acutely aware and not altogether proud: simply put, he didn’t always do the right thing. Sense frequently got the better of him and rather than doing what was right and just, he often found himself doing what was sensible instead. Sometimes, the sensible choice was holding his tongue when virtue might demand he speak up. Other times, the sensible choice was turning a blind eye when honour suggested he intervene. And at times just like this one, when a more courageous man would stand and fight, the sensible choice was to run and hide.
Before he even realized he’d made the sensible choice, Caleb’s feet were again crunching in the soft soil, his lungs were churning at full tilt, and the craggy rock formation loomed up in front of him. Safety. Stone sanctuary. Behind him, he heard the roar of open flames and a plaintive cry that sounded like his name, but they seemed so very distant across the vast expanse of his total panic.
He never looked back. He just pressed on through the stone columns, riding a wave of adrenaline that held his mounting exhaustion temporarily at bay. Stumbling, veering wildly from one rock to the next, he wound his way deep into the maze-like formation until he found a secluded nook just slightly larger than himself, then he hurriedly curled up inside.
That hole became his entire world, a small and safe harbour from the dangers outside. He could hear the release of arcane energies like the rumble of nearby thunder, and nothing else but his own ragged breathing and the hollow silence of his immense cowardice.
With his pulse still racing, he hugged his knees, closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the raging battle outside. He deliberately metered his breathing in an effort to calm his spastic heart, but it was no use. The fear was still there. Still hounding him. Still haunting him.
And so he waited, but for what, he couldn’t be quite sure. Some small part of him held out hope for rescue but he tried not to think on it too hard, for fear that logic might begin to shine through its cracks. He momentarily imagined that the Kremak could just turn and leave, deeming the small band of humans not worth their effort, but that didn’t jibe with what he knew of the monsters and their hatred for his kind. As for the possibility of Bibbs defeating them, the very thought of it was so absurd that Caleb almost laughed out loud. So he simply waited, shook uncontrollably, and tried as hard as he could not to think at all.
Eventually, a quiet as deep and impenetrable as an ocean came. Even the winds were still as if the entire planet held its breath in rapt anticipation, and for the first time in many long minutes, Caleb breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it would be alright. Maybe, just maybe, Bibbs had held his own against the inhuman menace, and the two of them could return back home.
Only silence.
Then light, heat, sound and confusion. Caleb’s safe harbour was gone, replaced by a body-rocking boom and the feeling of weightlessness. Shattered stone battered him as the world tumbled end over end, until finally he slammed back into the waiting soil. More rock fragments smashed into him like hammerblows. Bones snapped and erupted into throbbing lances o
f pain.
The dust settled and Caleb was presented with nothing but empty, fading sky. He twitched and quivered, his arm pinned beneath the immovable weight of boulders that pressed him helplessly to the ground, and all he knew for sure was that it was all about to end.
He heard a clatter of bone on bone, and the rattle of armoured footsteps approaching. He tried to crane his head to see who was coming, but a sharp pain at the base of his neck stopped him cold. And besides… he could guess who.
The Kremak chief appeared before him, a hulking skeletal abomination in erratic splashes of primary red, blue, yellow. The sharp eyes within its deep dark sockets scrutinized Caleb, and its wide mouth seemed permanently locked in a demonic grin.
It spoke, and the lower jaw of its helm moved in unison with the soft flesh it protected. The language was familiar to Caleb, a dialect of Subwyrma, the lesser dragon tongue. “I pity you, heretic,” it said.
Caleb’s mouth was slick with blood, and his swollen tongue had been bitten several times during flight. “Then spare me,” he begged weakly.
The Kremak’s eyes registered momentary surprise. “I cannot. You are human, fleshbender, perverter of life. It is for the good of the universe I do this. May the afterlight have mercy on your soul.”
The Kremak lifted his bonesword–a living weapon made of sinew, muscle and hard chitin, with a single, unblinking eye–and Caleb whimpered. He tugged at his trapped arm but there was no escape. There were no options. There was only this eternal moment, burning brightly in a flash flood of emotion.
Then the blade fell, and all was dark.
First Interlude
Here it’s Spring eternal. Storms roll in, storms roll out. The sky is a patchwork of silver and blue, and the landscape laid out beneath is evergreen.
“Always Spring,” his father would say. “Always the beginning of something new.”
Even in the happiest of times, there had been a shade of sadness in it. His father grew up on a world with real seasons, and as beautiful and temperate as this new world was, there was always a longing for the life he’d known. For the right and natural cycle of wither and bloom.
His father isn’t saying it now. The boy stands alone in the study listening to the murmur of hushed voices in the next room. Serious faces with averted eyes offer little but sideways glances. They bear shame alloyed with reproach over something left unsaid. Something best left unsaid.
The boy stands alone and he watches, breathes, and wonders. He recognizes the curled hats, long coats and purple armbands of special investigators, agents of the Duke’s Praesidium. Pretium Pacis Vigilia say the armbands in flowing script. The price of peace is vigilance.
The study is cold and drafty. It smells of old books, dust, and jasmine candles. His father’s spectacles rest on the small table beside his green leather chair, half-folded and catching early evening light with their carefully ground lenses, and through the doorway, past the investigators, he can see his mother’s quilted apron hanging neatly from a hook.
He knows he should feel something, but he doesn’t know what. Instead, there’s only a profound emptiness, a hollow that aches to be filled. More than anything, he simply wishes someone… anyone… would come and tell him what’s supposed to fill it.
With his silence, he pleads to the adults in the next room for help, but it washes past them perfectly unheard. They continue their mumbling, their glancing about and the comparison of their notes, while he waits for attention that will never come.
And for just one brief moment, he feels despair’s caress before it becomes too subtle, too cunning to ever detect again.
Minutes pass like days beneath a sky that shifts and writhes but never truly changes. No rain today, but maybe tomorrow. Maybe for days on end for all he cares.
The front-door’s handle creaks and clatters. Hinges moan, and hard boots clack crisply on wood panel floors. Investigators dip their hats and part to allow the newcomer through.
This man isn’t an investigator. Slender, sleek, a razor thin build like modern sculpture given motion. Flaxen hair slicked back and a sharp, hawkish face. His coat is the dark red of dried blood, with tails like the curved feathers of a diving bird.
Even as he pauses midstride, he’s the illusion of action. He’s fast lines and sharp angles, somehow controlled, contained, given elegance and grace.
His head held high, he passes through the doorway and into the study where his eyes lock onto the boy. There’s an instant of cold calculation, of thoughts and impressions colliding and reforming, then they fade before a simple smile.
He steps forward and kneels before the boy so they’re eye-to-eye, then looks the child over from head to toe. With fatherly warmth, he says, “You must be the young master.”
The boy nods, the fortifications of his silence remaining firmly in place.
“Well then… a proud thing you appear to be. Good posture, clean shoes, and you strike me as a bright young fellow. Know how I can tell?”
The boy shakes his head.
“It’s simple, really. Fools always announce themselves, but silence is a symptom of consideration. That’s all there is to being bright, you know. Either you’re in the habit of considering things or you’re not. And it’s quite a blessing that you’re a bright one, because you have a great many things to consider.”
The man looks one way and then the other, and in those two quick motions, he absorbs his surroundings. The boy watches the way he moves, the way his eyes so quickly dissect the room, and he’s astounded at the speed and efficiency of it.
“Do you know what my job is?”
In response, the boy does his best to imitate the man’s method. He looks quickly over him, analyzing, dissecting. He picks out every small detail he can find, categorizes it and files it away. Strong hands, but smooth and uncalloused. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and between his brow, as of a man who spends hours deep in thought. On his lapel, the Circle of Thorns, the symbol of the Emperor.
With all that information rattling around in his skull, the boy is confused. He doesn’t know the answer, but a thought occurs to him and he leans in close. Caught up in the moment, his fortress of silence crumbles, and in whisper he says, “Are you a hexenhunter?”
The man’s smile is wide and warm. “No, no,” he says with a laugh. “No, but I do work for the Imperium. My name is Kreutz, and I belong to the Office of Exigent Affairs. Do you know what that is?”
The boy shakes his head again, and the muscles responsible begin to grow tired.
“We deal with issues that require quick judgment, ones which the law is poorly equipped to handle. When such an issue arises, an adjudicator such as myself is dispatched and authorized to make decisions on the Emperor’s behalf. I’m like a referee. Do you understand?”
The boy nods and is glad for the rare opportunity.
“I happen to be a senior adjudicator, which means that I’m only brought in when the situation is very important. And that’s precisely what this is: a matter of utmost importance. Not least of all because it concerns your whole future, young man.
“Let me be clear. A truly terrible thing took place here…”
At that, a memory rushes up and overtakes the boy. There are loud crashing noises, flashing lights, and laughter. His mother pushes him and screams, “Run! Don’t ever stop!”
And just as swiftly, the memory is gone. The boy is covered in cold sweat, and his hands are shaking, but he’s right there, safe and sound in the study with the man called Kreutz. And it’s alright. It’s alright.
“…but I believe some good may yet come from it. I didn’t think it fair to make any decisions for you, though, and certainly not before I’d had a chance to look you in the eye. Not before I saw what a bright young fellow you are.”
The boy tries to smile, but it’s a strange and unfamiliar mask. Better to be empty, he thinks. Better to feel nothing at all rather than feel false.
“Here’s the challenging part. Like me, your par
ents were mundane, part of the servile class, which means they couldn’t own land or possess any real wealth. That wasn’t the case for Count Baston; he was not only awakened, but also a man of some considerable standing here on Mydora. He was the Duke’s brother, and his fortune was… well, quite a bit beyond someone like you or me.
“In situations of this sort, there isn’t usually any redress. The Count’s wealth would be divvied up amongst his bloodline, and you while away your days in an orphanage waiting for some kindly couple to find you and take you in. It would all be forgotten and no one would ever speak of it again… But I believe I can do better here. I’ve discovered a loophole that, as I said, could deliver some small measure of good out of such a terrible tragedy.
“The only thing I need to know right now,” Kreutz says, “is if you think you’d like to attend the Academy?”
“I think,” the boy replies quietly, “I think my father would’ve liked that.”
“But would you like that?”
“Always Spring,” he hears his father saying. “Always the beginning of something new.”
He nods again and says, “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Kreutz removes a roll of parchment from his coat and lays it out on the table, then he retrieves a silver quill and inkwell from another pocket. “I just need you to sign this letter of intent, and we’ll get the process under way.”
The boy looks at the letter, and though he can read the words, he understands very few of them. He takes the quill in hand, dips it softly in the ink, and signsCaleb Gedley at the bottom of the page.
A Letter From the Author
The story you’ve just read is the first part of a full-length novel called Arcana Universalis: The Hanged Man’s Revelation, which I’ve chosen to break apart and release episodically. My current outline calls for five episodes roughly the same length as this one which will each be released as they’re completed, and then finally together as a full novel later this year.
Arcana Universalis: Terminus Page 5
