The Immortal of Degoskirke

by Michael Green

  “He will rise,” a voice intoned.

  Sethoro took in the sight of the ragged faithful. Their bodies were scorched. Some would not recover. He considered heading to the fringes of Szareyath and trading some of his Counter for healing salve, and bolts of fabric to repair the shroud.

  “May Seth know his faithful,” another spoke.

  “Seth speaks through his champion,” said Jeka, his second in command, before taking Sethoro’s arm and raising it in triumph.

  The others cheered, but all Sethoro could see was the bloom. White and silver flowers budded and opened on the mangroves. He knew the water beneath tasted sweet, but he would never put it to his lips.

  “The Dead God sees; the Dead God knows that what we do is just, and he mocks us with pain,” Sethoro scoffed, and several in his audience echoed his indignant scoffing.

  Gazing at the massive body of the Jackal, now less than half-dead, Sethoro wondered if the insanity of their expedition could even be measured. Could the beast, alive or dead, possibly lead them to their fallen deity?

  Never airing these doubts, Sethoro helped those who could still walk haul the wounded to mats and places of repose in their cobbled tree-village.

  Jeka stroked the pallid brow of a delirious ryle and looked up at him. “We pay a high price,” she said, leaving her own doubt unspoken.

  Sethoro nodded, feeling responsible for their suffering. He missed his bed, and the comfortable stone walls and ceilings of the hidden temple to Seth which was once their home. The marshlands they had once roamed seemed a simple inconvenience, next to these damned swamps.

  He and Jeka left the hut and walked in silence around the perimeter of their nameless village.

  “Seth will reward us for our sacrifice,” Jeka whispered, her voice a balm for his pain.

  “Our sacrifices...” he started, wishing to air his doubt, but thought better of it. He knew that resurrecting the Jackal might do nothing, or worse, the Jackal might actually lead them to the body of the ancient deity. He expected to find the bones of a mighty ascended ryle, thousands of years dead. And if they did find the mountainous bones, what wealth was left to him would never resurrect a body that size.

  “The True God needs us, needs this sacrifice,” Jeka said.

  “Though the path was made for giants, and here we rot, small creatures of the muck—” Sethoro whispered, his attention drifting to a swirl in the swamp below.

  A shape lurked behind a gnarled mangrove.

  Drawing in breath, Sethoro tensed his body. Jeka saw this, but, ignorant as to why, she recoiled in fear. Clad in purple armor and wielding his blade, Sethoro leaped from the elevated walkway and dashed behind the mangrove.

  Frightened, a muddy brutox tripped over the submerged roots.

  Sethoro gave chase, and Jeka raced to catch up.

  The brutox was a spider, swift to bound, but unsteady in this swamp. Sethoro’s pace, while slower, was sure-footed and constant.

  “Cease your folly, brutox—I will have you!” Sethoro shouted.

  Finally, the brutox tumbled after a dangerous leap and found itself caught in the muck beneath.

  Sethoro approached with a leveled blade. Jeka caught up and stopped at his side, pointing a dirk of her own at the strange brutox.

  The brutox ceased its desperate retreat and stared at them. Sethoro considered the arachnid, wondering why it came so far. Just shy of asking, he heard a dreadful sound. Something moved nearby. Another sound, as of metal scraping a leather scabbard came from the left, and Sethoro knew he had been a fool to give such violent chase.

  “How do ryle live in this?” a voice spat.

  Jeka gasped, and Sethoro raised his blade against the latest threat.

  A ryle, wearing stained robes girded up to her thighs, stood nearby. Armed and armored bodyguards, each more appalled than the last, appeared from behind the mangroves, while others rose from the swamp. Bowstrings tensed, while javelins were raised, all pointed at Sethoro.

  “A ryle may endure any hardship in service,” Sethoro replied, knowing this ryle was a Lixovore.

  The Lixovore drew her brow in pious superiority.

  “What hardships will you endure, you, font of heathenry?” the Lixovore asked, handing a scroll to one of her brutox.

  The brutox approached cautiously, wary of Sethoro’s blade, and offered him the scroll.

  Jeka raised a hand and took the scroll before sheathing her dirk, allowing Sethoro to maintain his defense. She snapped the seal and read, “Heathen champion, self-named Sethoro, you are ordered to appear before the Szareyath Maelstrom—” the words caught in her throat.

  “How long do I have?” he asked.

  “You must report immediately,” the Lixovore said. “Now, surrender your Counter to me.”

  “There are thousands of heathens like us!” Jeka cried, “Why would you soil your robes to come so far and deprive us of our—”

  “Jeka, enough,” Sethoro ordered, releasing his blade and armor.

  “No!” Jeka insisted.

  Sethoro rounded on her. He leaned in and whispered, “You must lead them now.” Taking her hand, he forced most of his Counter into his palm. This, he rested in hers. “If I survive, I will return to you.”

  She tried to beg, but he was resolute. “Seth is of utmost importance; no one else can aid the True God.”

  “Dead ryle—no matter how aspirant to Godhood—are corpses for a reason,” the Lixovore declared, taking a step forward and gesturing with her clawed hand for the Counter.

  Sethoro produced a small orb and laid it in her palm.

  “Cute,” she said, ignoring the falsehood.

  Her eyes flashed purple and rested on Jeka. “I will let your pack of heathens retain that Counter, if you promise to offer me no resistance,” she said.

  Sethoro inclined his head. “Thank you,” he replied.

  Hours later, he sat on the worn deck of a barge. The jungles trailed past as the polestox navigated them upriver, towards the Maelstrom, and his fate.

  Excerpt from Impostor above Martia

  “There are men at the door—in the foyer now. They’re Primarchy men, and they’re here for you,” the headmistress said, clutching Addy’s shoulders and dragging her across the barrack hall.

  Addy, still yawning and wondering if this wasn’t a bad dream, followed in her nightclothes. Perhaps she had fallen into another prank set up by her sisters. But, as the mists of sleep fled, she felt biting cold in her toes on the stone floor and she heard the all-too-real throaty wheeze coming from the headmistress. She was awake, and this was no prank.

  “What do these men want with you?” the headmistress asked, at once hushed and exasperated, before snapping her fingers at a pair of bleary-eyed assistants, who scurried over.

  Addy blinked and rubbed her eyes. What she saw must have been wrong. The headmistress was never disheveled, and there was never a quaver in her voice, but here she was, shivering in fright and indignation as she whispered with her assistants.

  A crash echoed down the hall from the foyer.

  Hurried voices leaked through the hall door, which sat ajar. The glow of streetlights poured in through the windows, while skylights framed a jagged slice of the moon above.

  “What do these men want with you?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know,” Addy whispered. “Do I have to leave—I’m not dressed and it’s cold; can I just go back to my bunk to grab my things?”

  The assistants circled around her.

  Her headmistress’s wrinkled jowls dropped in decision. “The girl will need her clothes, but try not to wake the others—we don’t want endless gossip disrupting tomorrow’s lessons! And it will be endless!” Then to Addy, “is there anything else you’ll need?”

  The question was shocking; how could she know what the headmistress didn’t. Addy found herself nearly speechless; she tried to turn the question around on the headmistress, but it was too late. The guards at the foyer had stepped aside and let the stran
gers in. Two men in crisp, black suits seemed to glide soundlessly towards them. The men cast their eyes about the hall; they inspected the headmistress, her assistants, and finally, let their glances fall on Addy.

  “Addy Pershing,” one said, now within arm’s reach.

  Addy recoiled. “Just let me get my things—I need my notes. There’s homework I can do, and I need someone to check my experiment for bio—”

  “Will you let us get her things?” her headmistress pleaded.

  “Just clothes, no devices of any sort.”

  Eager to escape, the assistants ran to obey. Their absence, and the pause that followed, left the room painful and still.

  One of the men produced a data-slate and inspected an old image, a yearbook photo of Addy.

  “My hair’s longer,” Addy said, eyeing the picture.

  She had been fifteen then, and her awkward, gangly limbs and shocking red hair were tamed, still, and dignified in the barrack yearbook photo. She had even smiled.

  The assistants returned with her clothes and a few toiletries. Addy retreated to a nearby washroom to change, though the gang of adults stood outside the door, awfully silent. Addy didn’t know why she thought of them as adults and herself as a child; she was eighteen now.

  Looking in the mirror, her hair was a mess, but her house uniform was in order. She sacrificed a few moments to tame her hair, but gave up when someone knocked on the door.

  Addy stepped out, frightened and still disheveled. Seeing the state of her student, her ward, the headmistress stepped in front of the men, trying to bar their way.

  “But why must she go with you? Any questions can be answered here and now—with our full cooperation,” the headmistress almost begged the men, who were poised to grab Addy and carry her out of the building.

  They refused to answer and gestured down the hall, towards the foyer.

  Shuddering, Addy followed.

  “But—what are we to tell House Pershing when they come looking for their daughter?! What does this mean for us as an academy? How can people trust us with their children if the Primarchy can simply abduct them?!”

  Her questions were met with silence. The House guards stood aside as one set of double doors, and then a second, opened and shut, their click, a sound of dreadful finality.

  Addy stood alone, outside in cold pre-dawn, clutching at her shoulders. The doors were closed, but they might as well have not existed.

  A smooth, black sedan rumbled softly in the driveway. The car seemed to float, like liquid night, an unwelcome visitor to her mundane world. It was an intruder, here to gobble her up, to drag her from the safety and solace of her studies. Addy wanted to scoff; none of her sisters would notice her missing. She glanced at the license plate, recognizing the tags of L.A. Primarchy: two crossed palms above a golden bell, ringed with crests representing the subsidiary houses. The men coaxed her into the backseat. She sank into the over-plush interior.

  A slim cell raised to his ear, one captor said, “Package C-17 is in custody. We are en route to the motorcade.”

  But why? What did I do?

  She was forced deeper into the soft leather as the driver accelerated. The sedan sped down their driveway; she barely spotted the blockhouse and the guards, supposedly there to protect the students. Yet, here she was, being spirited away, and there they stood, saluting the Primarchy vehicle as it raced off, across the university campus.

  The roads were deserted, and the sedan refused to stop for red lights. Addy’s heart raced as the car decelerated before a red light, the driver looking left, then right, before racing through an intersection.

  The world seemed to be dreaming, unaware of the crime being committed, of rules being trampled in these indecent hours.

  They approached the central quad of Academy Fourteen. The older buildings, with their brick facades, seemed cloaked in mist as the sleek Primarchy cars assembled. A large, armored bus loomed ominously in the driveway. It was flanked by soldiers, armored in suits of black carapace, and bearing flechette rifles.

  Addy was escorted from the car toward the bus. Her footsteps echoed in the still mist, attracting the focus of dozens. Eyes, and the blank stares of helmets, followed her across the street.

  A woman with dark, curled hair stood sharp and crisp, despite the circumstance and hour, with her slate ready. Approaching this woman, her captor said, “C-17—Pershing.”

  “Our first guest,” she replied, with an earnest smile.

  “My name is Lynette,” she said, though Addy’s eyes locked to a pin on the woman’s lapel, marking her as a senior member of L.A. Primarchy. Lynette coughed politely, attracting Addy’s attention. “Yes, I’m a member of the L.A. Primarchy Board of External Affairs. We need you, and several of your peers, to come with us to Central—how exciting for you. We have questions and tests—nothing severe.”

  Addy breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s good—will I be able to get back to classes today? I have an important project, and I can’t leave it to my classmates—they’ll ruin it.”

  Lynette consulted her data-slate, and waved Addy’s escort away, leaving them alone. As Lynette tapped at her slate, Addy noticed more cars and other students arriving. All were in various states of dress and equally disheveled.

  “Why so keen to get back to class?” Lynette asked.

  Addy’s glance drifted down to her shoes; she wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “I’m looking at your social games scores.”

  “Social games are a joke.” Addy nearly barked at the woman.

  Lynette’s eyes widened and a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

  “Why are we even talking about this?” She felt slightly insulted by Lynette’s apparent disbelief. Addy crossed her arms and continued, “look at my human capitol scores.”

  Lynette nodded. “A respectable grade.”

  “I’m not popular in my barracks—but I work well in class and, look at all of my core subjects—ninety percent at least, across the spectrum.”

  “Why aren’t you popular in your barracks?” Lynette asked.

  Perplexed beyond reason, Addy let her arms hang defeated, at her side. As she did so, she noticed other students had lined up behind her. One young man, wearing the uniform of another small, specialty house, House Lederer, watched attentively, while the others fussed with their uniforms, belts, and shoes.

  “Addy?” Lynette said, tapping her slate impatiently.

  Addy took a deep breath and answered, “I’m unpopular because my bunkmate overheard a message sent by my father. She learned that my parents were on Four.”

  “Were on Four,” Lynette repeated.

  Addy furrowed her brow. “That can’t be what this about—no, that’s so pointless.”

  Lynette crossed her arms expectantly.

  “My mother died on Four—I don’t know how, and my father still works there, though I haven’t heard from him in years,” she whispered harshly, not wanting the others to hear.

  Lynette tapped sharply at her data-slate. “I’m sorry to bring up painful matters,” she said, before stepping aside and gesturing to the bus.

  “This can’t be about them—what does it matter?”

  Lynette was silent. A guard stepped forward.

  Addy scoffed and pushed past the guard. She mounted the steps to the bus and idled, looking back at the growing line. She stood and listened as the next student was asked the same questions.

  Lynette gestured at a nearby guard. “We need a few more investigators; look at this line.” The guard nodded, keying his communicator, which was recessed in a seam between his helmet and the fabric lining his throat. “Get them out of their cars,” she added, “I don’t care if it’s cold.”

  Addy clutched the rail on the bus and hid much of herself behind the door. She wanted to keep listening.

  “Miss,” an armed guard patrolling near the bus caught her attention. He gestured inside.

  Addy wanted to argue, but the blank visor brooked no dis
obedience. She boarded the bus. The benches were separated by thick, clear panes. The guard followed and waited for her to sit.

  He leaned in and produced a metallic tie.

  “What?” Addy recoiled at his closeness.

  “Just relax,” he ordered, his voice slightly inhuman, through the speaker in his helm.

  He took her left hand and secured it to a bar, recessed between the two seats. The restraint was tight, and she yelped. She wanted to ask him to loosen it, but was too afraid to speak.

  The guard left, and she looked out the window. New inspectors were processing their own lines of students. The Lederer student was arguing with Lynette. Addy used her free right hand to fiddle with the window, and found it would slide forward a few inches, enough to hear the conversation.

  “—can’t abduct students from their academies.”

  “It isn’t abduction; it is emergency detention—”

  “But notice must be given.”

  “Not in the case of an emergency,” Lynette retorted. “It’s plain in the L.A. Primarchy charter—the same charter that every subsidiary house signed. You’ll find the same provisions in all Primarchies, across the planet.”

  “But what’s the emergency? Should we just take your word for it?” Lederer demanded.

  Lynette shook her head. “This is what I get for being lenient,” she said to the other investigator, who only grunted, not looking away from his data-slate.

  Lynette nodded at a nearby guard. Though no order was given, the guard gave Lederer a quick shove towards the bus. For a moment, Addy expected Lederer to put up a fight, but he thought better of it. He came aboard and was walked to her bench.

  She met his glance and noticed his cheeks were red. He was shaking, but seemingly not with cold.

  He’s full of adrenaline.

  Lederer sat and accepted the restraint.

  Now that he was so close, Addy looked sidelong at him, considering his pins and uniform. Eager to break the silence, Addy said what came to mind.

  “I saw you in the line—House Lederer?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You recognize my devices,” he asked, running a finger over the sails and compass that made up his House insignia.