by Ginn Hale
Beyond the walls of Vundomu, wreckage spilled out across the valley in a chaos of splintered rock, limbs, and mud. And past that, a huge chasm spread north for miles. The bodies of men and animals, crushed supply wagons, and cracked mortars littered every inch of the ground.
Sickness washed over John. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He noticed movements on the terrace directly below him. A group of kahlirash’im hauled rubble from the remains of a stable. John could hear the distressed cries of the tahldi trapped inside. One of the kahlirash’im looked up.
“I think the central supports held,” the kahlirash shouted up to Wah’roa.
“We’ll have a walkway cleared and stabilized by the time you get them out,” Wah’roa called back.
John realized that now was not the time for self-recrimination. He might not be the Rifter that the kahlirash’im expected, but he could stabilize a walkway and clear rubble. So right now, he was the Rifter that they needed.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
John went to work at once, examining the remains of the wide walkway that had connected the sixth and seventh terraces. A few iron supports jutted out from the terrace wall. The rest of the walkway lay strewn over the street below in massive fragments of stone. John drew long filaments from the exposed iron struts and painstakingly pulled arches and supports up from shattered heaps of granite. He fought against the natural, simple forms of the stone and metal, forcing them to flow into architecture. His body ached. He drank strength from the fury of the storm above him and then descended to the sixth terrace. As he built another walkway and then another, the brutal rain ceased.
All around him, workmen and kahlirash’im looked on in awe. Most of the workmen backed away as he strode near them, but the kahlirash’im bowed down. John heard them uttering prayers to the Rifter and whispering his praise as he moved past them. Behind him, Wah’roa gave his men quick orders and commanded the workmen back to their endeavors.
John only stopped when he reached the remnants of the walkway connecting the fifth and fourth terraces. Wah’roa and Sen’an halted just a little behind him. Below them entire blocks of the fourth terrace blazed. Munitions from the armory exploded, spewing fragments of rock, metal, and burning wood into the air. Without the rain to restrain them, geysers of flame shot up over the streets, nearly reaching over the walls of the fifth terrace. The heat rolled over John, scorching his bare face.
John stared down at the sea of fire. The smoke burned his eyes and caught in his throat. Even after all the crushing, bloody injuries he had endured, the thought of being burned alive still terrified him. The memory of the writhing, charred bodies on the Holy Road curled up in his mind, triggered by the sharp scent of smoke and veru oil. He couldn’t imagine any worse pain than burning. But the fires needed to be extinguished and there was no one else to do it.
“You should probably stay up here,” John told Wah’roa and Sen’an. Wah’roa bowed his head. Sen’an nodded, but his gaze hardly wavered from the roiling flames that arched and roared all across the fourth terrace.
John’s heart hammered in his chest. His entire body trembled. He closed his eyes against the blinding light. Then he drew a brutal wind around him and descended into the inferno.
He braced himself against the agony of burning, but the pain never came. Flames rushed over him and died instantly. Reflexively, he drank them in as he had the storm. The wild energy twisted and churned inside him, but John refused to release it. He walked through the flaming armory, devouring heat and light and leaving cold ashes in his wake.
Sometime near dusk he completed the last walkway, cleared the wreckage of the railway, and reached the shattered remnants of the valley. The bodies of dead men and tahldi blanketed the earth as far as John could see. He turned away.
When he returned to the sixth terrace, he found the kahlirash’im and their loyal ushvun’im still searching for survivors in the wreckage of the stables and barracks. John joined them. He lifted stones carefully by hand and reached deep into the spaces between the stones. He found bodies and terribly crushed remains. He dug one mutilated boy free only to watch him die in his arms.
John almost broke down then. He could never even hope to mend the damage he had done here. The destruction seemed endless and irreparable. He didn’t know if he could stand to see any more burned remains or crushed bodies. He wanted to walk away to somewhere quiet and safe to escape from the all-encompassing ruin.
But he knew he couldn’t give up. He had brought this devastation down on Vundomu and he had to do all he could to make amends. He hauled stones away and pushed shattered beams aside. There were still people alive in the wreckage. He couldn’t stop. Even after darkness fell, John continued to dig through the rubble for those last few faint lives he sensed buried beneath the perfect masses of stone.
He freed seven workmen trapped in the lift shafts and another ten who had been buried inside boxcars in the train yard.
By the time the sun rose, John had freed another twelve men and five tahldi and he knew that there were no more left alive. His arms felt like dead weights. The muscles of his back and waist ached from the constant exertion. It hurt just to breathe.
John glanced up to the seventh terrace where the morning sunlight gleamed off the black tiles of the Rifter’s temple. He wanted to see Ravishan.
But there were still more collapsed buildings. And there were oil fires to be dealt with as well. John dragged himself back to work. He extinguished the fires threatening the two remaining grain silos. He dragged bodies to a stone warehouse where they could be given rites and then burned.
In the afternoon, while Wah’roa’s men took stock of the meager supplies remaining in Vundomu, John returned to the infirmary. He knelt beside Ravishan’s cot and curled his hand around Ravishan’s.
Ravishan’s fingers were like ice. The memory of so many other deathly cold bodies knifed through John. He stared at Ravishan, watching him breathe, reassuring himself that Ravishan still lived. He was too tired to say or do anything else.
Behind him the old priest still tended the wounded men. Two other men had come to join him. All of them shied away from John, never meeting his eyes or speaking to him. Out in the main chamber of the temple, John could hear men praying. The kahlirash’im prayed for strength. But common priests and workmen wept. They begged the Rifter for mercy, begged him not to end their world.
John watched Ravishan in silence. Steadily three days of exhaustion crept over him. He bowed his head against the edge of the cot and closed his eyes.
He slept, but not peacefully. His dreams were a chaos of flames and the shrieking Gray Space. He caught glimpses of Ravishan. Strange black forms writhed over him, and when John reached out to pull Ravishan free, his arms came back filled with nothing but dripping black tar.
Slowly John’s senses drifted deeper and his dreams sank into the calm of stones and earth. He floated through the steady flow of ground water as it seeped through fissures and poured into the deep chasms at Vundomu’s base. At the very edge of his awareness he felt the sun sink and then rise again. Its warmth crept across the sky and slowly it began another descent.
A cold, wet sensation brushed over the back of his hand. John bolted upright and then jerked back from a vision of white teeth and yellow hair. An instant later John realized that he was staring at a large yellow dog.
“Ji.” The murky confusion of sleep still hung in John’s thoughts. “You’re here.”
Ji simply nodded. It was an obvious statement and John felt a little embarrassed to have made it.
“I arrived about an hour ago. Kahlirash Wah’roa only just allowed me to come see you,” Ji said.
“Has something happened?” John suddenly straightened. “Have the Bousim rashan’im breached the Warren already?”
“No,” Ji replied. “And they never will. The Warren collapsed three days ago. The tremors from your assault on Vundomu brought it down.”
John could feel the blood draining from his f
ace.
“How many survived?” John asked.
“Everyone. I evacuated the entire thing nearly two weeks ago,” Ji said. “Didn’t you get the news from Saimura?”
“Yes.” John barely recalled that conversation at the Hearthstone. It felt like it had been weeks since he’d seen Saimura. “He said you were emptying the Warren, but he didn’t know why.”
“And now you know why,” Ji said.
“You knew that I would do this?” John asked.
“Not always,” Ji said. John thought her expression was troubled, but he couldn’t be sure. “After you left the Warren, I began seeing the corridors collapse. Then I had visions of the streets crumbling and the chapel coming down. The visions became stronger and more clear, but after Ravishan brought you news of your sister, Loshai, then I knew that you would bring the entire Warren down.” Ji gazed past John to Ravishan. “How was he injured?”
“An ushiri stabbed him with a curse blade.”
“And he’s still living?” Ji cocked her head slightly. She placed her front legs on the edge of Ravishan’s cot and leaned over him. She took in several deep breaths. “A Payshmura treated him? You bore the wound.”
“Yes. The priest here did most of the work.” John indicated the old priest.
“I’ll see what more I can do,” Ji said. “You should go down and make sure that the kahlirash’im treat our people with respect. We’re willing to share our supplies, but I won’t have the kahlirash’im just appropriate them.”
“You brought supplies?”
“We brought everything we had,” Ji said. “Kansa and Tanash are down with the wagons. You should go to them. Keep that Commander Wah’roa in line.” Ji turned back to Ravishan.
“Will you be able to help him?” John asked.
“I’ll do all I can, Jahn. But you’ll just get in my way if you keep hovering here.”
“Sorry. I’ll go help Tanash.” John started to leave but then paused. “Thank you for coming, Ji.”
“We didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Ji said, but her tail wagged a little. “Still, you’re welcome. It’s good to see you, Jahn.”
•
John hurried down from the seventh terrace. The light was fading, but he could still easily make out the dark line of hundreds of Fai’daum interspersed between wagons and herds of sheep, goats, and tahldi. The line of them ribboned up from the ragged valley through the ruins of the first three terraces. A troop of twenty kahlirash’im stood between the nearest wagons and the walkway leading to the fourth terrace.
As John drew closer he recognized Wah’roa at the head of the troop and Kansa standing her ground in front of the wagons. Tanash sat on the closest wagon, holding the reins and looking both pained and bored. John waved at her and she squinted at him for several moments. Then, as John came closer, she suddenly grinned and waved back. Both Kansa and Wah’roa looked back at him. John took the last few feet of the walkway quickly.
Ji had been right to suspect that Wah’roa would want control of the Fai’daum refugees and their supplies. Though, John quickly grasped that it wasn’t just greed that motivated Wah’roa. Whole districts of Vundomu were still dangerous. Many oil fires had just been trenched and left to burn themselves out; several buildings remained unstable; and much of the water on the lower terraces had been contaminated by ruptured sewage pipes. Wah’roa didn’t want the Fai’daum or their livestock wandering haphazardly through Vundomu.
“Certainly, we will accept your escort, but that doesn’t mean that we are under your command.” Kansa stared intently at Wah’roa and John suddenly noticed how much she resembled her brother, Pirr’tu. Looking at her thick dark brows and hard angular jaw, John couldn’t help but wonder if Pirr’tu, Tai’yu, and Saimura had gotten word from Fenn and Lafi’shir. He wondered if they were still waiting at the Hearthstone and what they had made of his sudden departure.
“Everyone entering Vundomu is under the command of the kahlirash’im,” Wah’roa stated. “This is our holy city. And those who come here will obey our laws.”
“I’m sure no one is thinking of breaking any laws,” John said.
Both Kansa and Wah’roa looked at him. Kansa’s expression was one of annoyance at the interruption, but Wah’roa immediately bowed his head to John.
“Do you wish them to be allowed in, my—”
“Jath’ibaye,” John cut in quickly.
Wah’roa took a moment, seemingly gathering his will, and then said, “If that is what you wish, Jath’ibaye, then it will be done.”
“It is. Thank you, Wah’roa.”
Kansa frowned at John curiously and Tanash stared at him with her mouth hanging just slightly open.
“Ji says that the Fai’daum will share their supplies with us. And many of Ji’s students are trained in healing. Their assistance could save men’s lives.”
John felt odd using the term ‘us’ so freely with Wah’roa. He’d hardly spent more than two days with the man, but during that time they had labored and suffered for a common cause. They had saved lives and stabilized much of Vundomu. John couldn’t help but feel a bond in that.
“We would be glad for the aid,” Wah’roa said.
“How do you think we could best shelter them all?” John asked.
“It’s my decision then?” Wah’roa raised his brows.
“You’re the commander of the kahlirash’im. You would know best.”
“All right.” Wah’roa straightened. “We can house the majority of them on the fifth terrace, but they have to stay clear of the fires. The animals will have to be taken to the sixth terrace or there won’t be water for them.”
“Does that sound good to you, Kansa?” John asked.
Kansa squinted at John as if she still couldn’t believe that it was him she was looking at. John wondered if he had changed since she had last seen him. Or more probably, he hadn’t changed and she couldn’t imagine what sway an incompetent witch like himself could have over a kahlirash commander.
“Yes, it sounds fine. Thank you.” The last she said to Wah’roa. He simply inclined his head.
“My men will escort you up,” Wah’roa replied.
Kansa nodded and strode back to the lead wagon. She took the reins from Tanash and then followed the kahlirash’im up the newly repaired walkway. John watched the wagons, shepherds, and herds of animals file past. He could see the wonder and fear in the people’s expressions as they took in the destruction around them. John gazed at the heaps of rubble scattered across the street. An arm jutted out from beneath one huge mass of charred stone.
“You wish to keep your true name a secret from them, my lord?” Wah’roa asked in a low whisper. The man was so slim and quiet that John hadn’t even noticed his approach. He’d thought Wah’roa had gone with the rest of the kahlirash’im.
“Yes, if I can.” John leaned against the cracked stones; below he could see the pulverized wreckage of the lower terraces as well as the shattered valley. Wah’roa joined John next to the remnants of the terrace wall.
“Why?” Wah’roa asked quietly.
“They’re already afraid of everything that’s happened,” John said. “The last thing they need to find out is that the Rifter has crossed the worlds. For anyone who isn’t a kahlirash, the Rifter means the end of the world.”
“They will learn otherwise,” Wah’roa said. He gazed at John intensely. “They will come to realize that you are a cleansing rain brought down from the heavens.”
“Announcing something like that would only scare them more, especially right now,” John replied.
“But you are the divine wrath,” Wah’roa said. “Shouldn’t they fear you? Shouldn’t they bow down before you and beg your mercy for all their wrongs?”
“That’s the last thing I’d want,” John said.
Wah’roa seemed surprised by this. He said, “I…I mean no offense, my lord…but you are not what I expected.”
“No, probably not.”
Far below in the v
alley, bodies of the dead lay twisted and mangled at the edges of the vast chasm. There were too many to count. A chilling wind swirled up from John and snow began to pour down over the carnage.
“If I hadn’t witnessed your ascent from the valley to the temple I would never have thought…” Wah’roa began but then broke off. He studied John. “I never thought the Rifter would seem so human.”
“I am human,” John said. He immediately realized that he was wrong. A human being didn’t tear stones apart with his bare hands or ride on storm winds. Human beings died when they were impaled, poisoned, and shot. Humanity was no longer his to claim. John felt an almost physical loss at the thought.
“I was human,” John amended.
The two of them watched as the snow blanketed the valley, covering the dead like a pure, white shroud.
“Will you destroy the Payshmura?” Wah’roa finally asked.
John didn’t want to destroy anything. But he hadn’t necessarily wanted to crush this army either. If he had to make the choice again, he knew he would still come to Vundomu. He would still murder thousands of men to try and save Ravishan.
“I’ll do what I have to do to free the issusha’im and to keep Vundomu safe,” John said. He turned back to the distant silhouette of the temple.
“We should get back,” John said.
“Indeed,” Wah’roa agreed with the hint of a smile. “Our new Fai’daum allies will need looking after.”
They walked up together.
When John reached the infirmary, Ravishan was still unconscious, but his skin felt warmer. A little color had returned to his face. Ji hunched beside another wounded man, whispering low, growling words over his damaged body. She glanced up at John but didn’t stop her spell to greet him. John spotted Kansa, Tanash, and four of Ji’s other students also moving among the cots, treating the wounded. The old infirmary priest seemed flustered by the influx of young women. He gave Wah’roa a pleading glance, but Wah’roa just shrugged.
John knelt down beside Ravishan’s cot. He took Ravishan’s hand in his own. Where his fingers rested against Ravishan’s wrist, John felt the weak kick of his pulse. John bowed his head and closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. He couldn’t have slept, but he needed to shut out the outside world, even for a few minutes. He needed to be with Ravishan, even if Ravishan could not respond to him.
