by Swanson, Jay
There were hundreds, possibly thousands. This isn't possible... Keaton swallowed back panic of his own. Not now... not now.
“Saltman!” His voice cracked when he shouted. “Saltman, get your ass over here RIGHT NOW!”
“Sir?”
“Now, Saltman!” Keaton couldn't believe this was happening.
“SIR!” Saltman wasn't coming.
“Saltman, I said now!”
“Anders, get over here!” Saltman was almost as urgent as the other Hunter. “Anders, I'm serious! Please sir, now!”
Keaton growled to himself and rushed back through the guns and gears to where Saltman and the rest were frantically strapping their slender packs on over their shoulders.
“I need you on the other side, Saltman!”
“Sir!” Saltman stopped to point out the window to the north. “Sir...”
All of his haste and resolution faded in that moment, and as Keaton turned he realized why. One of the larger cannons in the bunker to their northeast had just finished taking aim.
“It was good serving with you sir,” Saltman said as he dropped his pack.
“Get your gear!” Keaton wasn't having it. “We're getting the hell out of he–”
But Anders Keaton never finished his sentence as the shell ripped through the central column supporting the bastion's ceiling. Rock and metal shards whizzed in every direction. The world was suddenly a ringing, blinding pain to Anders Keaton. He was bleeding from everywhere, he was certain of it. Shrapnel had riddled him with the first blast.
He tried to yell, tried to tell his men to get out, but his voice had left him once again. He raised his hands to his throat, the warm flow of blood over his fingers unmistakable to his seasoned senses. The entire structure began to collapse on top of his men as they tried to get to their feet. Their cries of pain and terror were reaching him now through the infernal ringing that beset his ears.
Anders Keaton's heart broke as he watched yet more of his men die. He took a step forward, nearly falling from wounded legs as he did so, trying to reach them, trying to help them up. He tried again to yell for them to run, but all that came out was a disgusting gurgle. The second shot from the shore-side cannon ensured that his silent orders were never heeded.
Phelts' heart dared to hope in the moment that he saw Pompidus Merodach explode in the central harbor. He hadn't known what was coming, nor had he known with certainty how he would deal with the aftermath once it was over, but everything came together for him with blistering certainty in the very instant that the Mayor died.
“You!” He yelled at one of the dumbfounded engineers who stood gaping at the carnage only a few hundred yards away.
“S-sir?” The kid turned to face him, white as the broad stripes on his coveralls.
“Your name's Tom, right? Is this gun functional yet?”
“Yes sir... it just needs the firing pin and a round.”
“Then finish it!” He turned to his guide. “Aim it.”
“Sir.” The boy backed away half a step. “I'm just an engineer. I don't shoot these things.”
“I didn't say shoot it.” Phelts resumed his calm. “I said aim it. So aim it.”
He turned to another engineer, some girl with her hair tied and hanging from behind her head. “Grab a round and put it in.” At least she didn't argue, but got right to it.
He walked over to the window, his heart racing harder as each second passed. He needed to end this, and quickly. There could be no loose ends, nothing tying him back to this or to the Hunters at large. I wish there was another way... He had to make certain Anders Keaton never again walked the streets of Elandir.
“Sir!” Tom the engineer was at his elbow. “It's done, sir.”
“Good.” He turned and found his guide cranking the levers to aim it. The kids had done a good job of restoring the gun, the freshly greased gears swinging it silently into place in seconds. His throat tightened as butterflies fought to escape his stomach. “Is it loaded?”
The girl glanced at him, her nerves breaking through the straight face she put on. “Sir.”
“Grab another round.” He stepped over the trough to stand behind and to the side of the gun, grabbing the chain that hung from the side. “This'll fire it, right?”
Tom nodded as he took a step back and covered his ears. Phelts took the cue and covered one of his own with his free hand. Good god, Anders... I'm so sorry.
“May traitors never live to see the fruits of their betrayals,” he said. Then he yanked the chain.
The top of the bastion burst into a cloud of dust and shrapnel. It took Phelts a moment to see it as he reeled from the impact of the gun's discharge. He felt sick to his stomach, but he couldn't stop now. He turned immediately to the girl behind him.
“Load it!”
She didn't hesitate, unlatching the end with deft skill and discharging the spent shell before shoving a fresh one inside. She closed the gun with a clang, spinning the lever to seal it, then stepped back and covered her ears again.
The flat top of the bastion was teetering slightly, like an imbalanced mushroom on the verge of collapse. Quinn Phelts paused for a moment, his hesitation spawned by the thought of the carnage that he had just unleashed on the most loyal men that had ever served and sacrificed for Elandir. Men who had saved the Black City, had stopped a war... had saved his life.
“I'm sorry, Anders...” he said under his breath, then he pulled the chain and blew the entire structure to hell.
Phelts ran for the bunker where Merodach had died. Where he hoped and prayed that Merodach had died. There was a lightness in his step that served as the only signal that he wasn't truly distressed by his Mayor's assassination. To everyone he passed, he looked on the verge of hysteria.
The final tunnel into the bunker was blocked by rubble. That's a good sign. He backed up and dashed up the stairs from the dust-filled bunker he was in to the brilliant sunlight outside. Dozens of soldiers were working on the caved-in bunker, trying to dig through the collapsed stone and reach the men they hoped were still alive within.
Stones had been thrown in every direction, but the majority had collapsed down and in and now rested well below the ground on which Phelts stood. He threw himself into the pit with the soldiers, doing his part to seek out their Mayor. He pulled one stone after the other until his fingers felt raw, and still he dug deeper.
“Sir,” a hand rested on his shoulder to calm him, but he ignored it. “Sir!”
The hand turned him, the tears on his cheeks the result of the combination of pain and the tumultuous set of emotions swirling inside him.
“The Mayor is dead, sir.” The soldier pointed to where they were dragging Merodach's mangled corpse out of the wreckage. “I'm sorry.”
“No.” Phelts got up and stumbled through the mess of stone towards the body. Yes. I'm free! I've done it! Elandir is safe... I'm safe! “Good god... just look at him.”
Merodach's body was mangled, but recognizable. Thankfully it was disgusting, because it was all Phelts could do to keep from bursting into laughter. The elation of his freedom and the success of the mission were threatening to undo him. He had to leave, to celebrate his victory in some rundown pub in Liscentia where everyone would think he was drowning his sorrows.
Or did he? How much of an act did he need to put on? Everyone hated Merodach. He needed to take control, starting with this detachment, before anyone questioned his authority. The thought brought back his calm, restored his clarity as he breathed deeply and composed himself.
He stood, not taking his eyes off of the body before asking after Cram.
“He's dead too, sir. Bled out just as we pulled him from the bunker.”
That's unfortunate, Phelts thought as he remembered how Cram had stood up to Merodach. No matter; we'll need to restructure the military in any case.
The soldier held up a bent piece of gold in his hand. “I think you should have this sir, shouldn't you?”
Merodach's brooch..
. The medallion of the Mayor of Elandir was similar to a military pin, except gold and somewhat larger. The long star in the curved blade of a scythe had blood spattered on it still, and was bent slightly on one end. Phelts had never actually seen the Mayor wear it outside of ceremonies. I didn't even know he ever carried this.
“Thank you,” he said as the soldier took it back and pinned it to his chest. “We need to transport the bodies back to Elandir for burial,” he said as he looked from man to man. “The assassins were killed out on the pillar, but I want a search made to ensure that none of them survived. Who's in command?”
“I am, sir.” A spindly lieutenant stepped forward from behind the rank and file soldiers that surrounded the pit.
“There's no need for your engineers to keep working; we'll surrender as soon as Silverdale arrives. But I want a thorough search for any Hunters we may have missed, and I need you to send the bodies back immediately.” But the lieutenant wasn't listening to him any more, he was staring off at the pillar. Beyond the pillar, Phelts realized. Everyone was.
Quinn Phelts turned as utterances of fear and disbelief began to break out among the soldiers around him. It only took him seconds to realize exactly what they were looking at. Beyond the smoking remnants of the pillar, standing like a lone candle blown out before its time, came the black sails of the old tales. The invasion force of the Relequim had returned.
TWENTY-SIX
ARDIN KICKED UP THOUGHTLESSLY AS SHILL'S MOMENTUM PUSHED HIM BACKWARDS. He caught the old man in the chest, sending him over and to the side as he continued past. The knife that was now firmly lodged in his chest had come within a hair's breadth of his heart. He could sense it as the pain of it ripped through him with every motion.
He called upon the warmth, but in its place found nothing but a deep sense of sickness that ached in him from the core of his very bones. MARD.
He rolled to his side, but was held back by the pain and couldn't bring himself to sit up. Blood was bubbling in his breath and frothing into his mouth; he had to do something. Panic rose in him now.
“It takes a lot of courage to stab a Mage-Man twice, you know?” Shill wandered into his line of sight, kneeling just feet away from him to look into his eyes. “I mean, the odds of surviving attacking someone like you are... well, slim to none.”
“Shill?” He clenched his eyes and grimaced against the pain. “It was you... not Branston? Why?”
Shill took a moment to consider the question. He wasn't in any rush, Ardin realized. Shill was certain that he had already accomplished what he had set out to do. “There are so few things in this world that can give an old man pleasure. You'll never know this now, but when you reach a certain age you no longer care for what you used to love. The simple pleasures in life take on different forms, and if you aren't careful, you may lose track of them all together.”
He stood and took another few steps towards Ardin until he knelt directly over him. “Sometimes all you want is to be remembered, to have your deeds sung and your name carved in stone. And when that's taken from you, when others stand in your stead and you fade to the background, well, sometimes the only way to be remembered is to betray the ones who owe you so dearly.”
“But Branston.”
“Branston saved your life,” Shill scoffed. “Highbred bastard put me in the state that I'm in now, all to save you from a fate that finds you in the end regardless. His one good deed, and I just nullified it.”
Ardin spat blood on the ground, but he choked on it now. He could barely breathe, and the burning in his throat began to set off flares in his mind.
“I managed to slow you down well enough, but I never thought you'd give me such a good opportunity to kill you.” Shill smiled in the dark, the sliver of moonlight illuminating the self satisfaction on his lips. “Though I guess it was our mutual friend who gave me the time I needed in the end. After you're done bleeding out, I should be able to make it north in time to see him come into his power once and for all.”
Ardin didn't dare move any more than he had to, the knife so close to his heart already causing so much damage.
“No good without your magic, are you? Just some boy with a blade in his ribs.” Shill patted Ardin's arm as he stood. “It's ok, boy, being human is all we're meant for, and you're no exception.”
“He is meant for godhood!”
Shill spun to the voice as a staff struck out of the darkness and landed a blow against his shoulder. He stumbled, thrown off balance, and barely caught himself before rolling away from another strike.
“You!” Shill circled the cloaked figure in the darkness. “What are you doing here?”
Hevetican's voice boomed with authority. “I am here to protect he who is meant to save us.”
“You wretched old fool!” Shill produced a short sword from within the folds of his own travel cloak, something Ardin hadn't even realized he carried until he saw the glint of the night sky run along its edge. “You're too late! He's dying even now, your precious Swift god! And even should he have risen to the challenge, what chance could he possibly stand against the Relequim? What chance do any of us have?!”
He launched himself forward as Hevetican took a step to the side, blocking the blade with his ashen staff and guiding it into thin air. He spun, bringing the wood around as he aimed for Shill's head, but Shill, too, spun and blocked in time to hold him there.
“It's over!” Shill screamed. “Veria falls, and Grandia is subdued!”
He kicked hard, catching Hevetican in the stomach and sending the old Truan a step backwards. Shill brought the blade around and down on the old man. Shill caught him in the shoulder and spun him to the ground with a snarl.
Hevetican shouted in pain as he slammed down, then grunted as he forced himself to roll away from the finishing blow. Shill howled in anger as he missed his killing strike, and kicked Hevetican in the chest before he could get far enough away.
“Ardin!” Hevetican groaned as he tried to pick himself up. “You are more than Mage or man!”
“Silence!” Shill kicked him again and drove down with his sword, catching the old man in the stomach and driving the blade clean through him.
It was Hevetican's turn to howl, though his came from pain and desperation. “Ardin!” He was wailing as Ardin fought to maintain consciousness. He could barely see the two fighting in the dark through the tears and the pain. “You are among the Swift! Be not limited to your magic!”
My magic... Ardin repeated it in his mind, and then something clicked. The words of the Greater Being, the Brethren, and Hevetican all took root in one fell swoop. I'm more than just a Mage... I am something far greater.
He made the jump.
Why he hadn't thought to do so before only struck him as foolish. He realized now that there had been more going on in his confrontation with the Relequim than he had believed. He only needed a few moments in this form to heal, and then he would jump back in. In whatever way that knife had been designed to spread the MARD throughout him, it had been far too effective for his liking. But it couldn't affect the Shade in him.
He jumped back as Shill stood waiting, Hevetican's broken body barely visible in the dark of night. The warmth... Ardin realized with a shock. It's not coming.
“That knife was a special one, boy.” Shill was breathing heavily. He wasn't so weak as he had led Ardin to believe, but he wasn't in good shape either. “Given to me specifically for you.”
He raised his sword with one hand as he caught his breath between sentences. “And now I finish what the dragons couldn't do.”
Ardin almost smiled at that. He could still take Shill in a fight. But before Shill could take even a step forward he arched his back in a gaping shock. A blade as white as bone appeared through his cloak, jutting into the moonlight through his left breast.
“You,” Hevetican took a raspy breath, “are nothing compared to dragons.”
He hauled down on his staff, the blade at its end vanishing in the motion, and spu
n, bringing the ashen staff around and connecting against Shill's temple with a crack. And with that, the Master of the Renault bodyguard dropped dead in a heap.
Hevetican slumped down as well, the last of his life wavering before Ardin's eyes. He grabbed the old Truan, trying to call up the warmth to heal him, but nothing came. It didn't respond.
“Ardin.” Hevetican placed a bloody hand on Ardin's white-clad arm. The smear it left as his strength departed looked black in the night. “Take... your place.”
The old Truan's life left him in that moment, the last of it spent to save Ardin's, and Ardin was rendered unable to return the favor. He held onto Hevetican for a moment longer in the stillness that surrounded them, gripping the cloak around his arms until finally he laid his body down along the ground.
Ardin sat through the night, unable to sleep and unwilling to try. The warmth would not stir, no matter how he thought to call it up. It simply was not there. His fears only grew as he thought on his choices and how limited his options to deal with them had suddenly become. He couldn't get to Veria now, not in time, not without his power to move him at speed. Should he even make it, how could he hope to fight an entire army with only the power of one Shade? A power he had yet to fully explore on his own.
How then could he hope to face the Relequim's armies with the Renaults? He might make it in time if he set out immediately on horse, but what would he do when he got there?
The Brethren... the thought gave him hope. They'll know what's wrong with me. They have to.
He stood, unable to believe still that Shill had been the traitor in their midst all along. It made Ardin both angry and sad to think that they had all demonized Branston in the wake of his finest moment.
And now he couldn't even so much as burn Hevetican's body. He was out of choices, and though his options in action were few, he had to do what little he could. He walked back to where he and Shill had originally camped and untied their horses. A third horse stood among theirs, nuzzling them as if happy to be reunited. He jumped on his, taking the reins of the other two horses and tying them to his saddle.
