The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim

by Jay Swanson

  THE VITALIS CHRONICLES

  TOMB OF THE RELEQUIM

  JAY SWANSON

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  BOOK II OF THE VITALIS CHRONICLES TRILOGY

  http://vitalischronicles.com

  http://jayswanson.me

  The Vitalis Chronicles is a fantasy trilogy by Jay Swanson, and is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. All elements to the story - including any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead - are entirely fictional.

  FIND JAY SWANSON AT

  WWW.JAYSWANSON.ME

  © copyright 2012 by Jay Swanson

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  ISBN #978-0-9834699-2-6

  eBook Edition

  Cover Art Illustration by Sam Spratt

  www.samspratt.com

  Photography by Liz Cantu

  Maps by Jay

  Visit http://vitalischronicles.com for more info!

  Published by Jay as The Northern Range

  http://thenorthernrange.com

  DEDICATION

  MAPS

  INTRO

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  COMING SOON

  THIS BOOK IS FOR THE FEW

  WHOSE EYE FOR THE LITTLE THINGS

  ONLY SERVES TO MAKE MY WORK STRONGER

  JENNA & ALI

  SOMETIMES THE DEVIL

  REALLY IS IN THE DETAILS.

  THE WORLD IS AFLAME. As if the sun won its battle with vacuous space and bridged the gap to consume its surroundings. The heat is unbearable; destructive in nature yet never consuming its final victim. He lies in the center of the room, waiting for it to claim him, wishing at times that it would. It never advances so far as to show him such mercy.

  He feels the heat on his face, his clothing on the verge of ignition. The walls of the small house crack and splinter, crumbling around him in the inferno's insatiable lust. It feels like they have fallen before. But when did they rise? The smoke blinds him at times, the sting of ash eliciting tears, blurring his vision further.

  Some tears aren't reactionary; some are for those he knows are nearby. Death roves free among the burning houses that fill the valley, inhaling the passing of souls with zeal like so many addicts their fumes.

  His family is there. He can't see them. He can never see their faces. But he can hear their screams.

  The combination is maddening, inducing despair beyond anything he has ever known. He wants to move, to crawl into the flames and join them in their fate; but fate, it seems, wishes otherwise.

  He doesn't know how he got here, nor does he know from where the fire came. All he knows is that he could have done something to prevent this, could have been there to save them.

  And the fire burns on. And the screams never die. And he is left with the ghosts of the slaughter of Levanton.

  ONE

  THE BAGGAGE TRAIN STRETCHED FOR ALMOST A MILE NOW. The trucks were slow-moving to begin with, but without roads they turned lethargic. The twenty vehicles had spaced themselves out to the point that their commander, a dark swarthy Major by the name of Vasquez, was about to start slitting tires to let off steam. Granted, he was always on the verge of slitting something to let off steam.

  “Beautiful day to be out driving. Blue sky as far as the eye can see and not a woman in sight to sour the moment.” Captain Reynolds grinned. He was Vasquez's driver and commanding officer of the support unit. Notably, he was in a much sunnier mood. “And you sir, lucky as you are, somehow drew the straw for a mission like this on just such a beautiful day. And got stuck with we lowly few in the process, of course.”

  “Anders mouthed off at just the right time and got us both roped into this mess. I wouldn't call that luck.” Unlike the captain, Vasquez didn't need any heroics added to his career's highlights. His black mustache bristled at the thought of their mission.

  “Anders has a mouth, that's for sure, but that's what Hunters are for isn't it? They're a cocky bunch to begin with. How does that translate into you getting picked?”

  “I was in the same damned room!” Vasquez punched the dash of the car and grunted. Its defenses proved adequate to deal with his assault. “They go on and on about how the south is moving against us, and how we need to know what they're up to. So Anders stands up and says it's impossible, and that if it's true we should seek a peaceful resolution.”

  “Old woman that he is.”

  “Point being, Colonel Rast didn't take too kindly to the dissension. So as punishment he put Anders on reconnaissance for the mission he was actively defying.”

  “Seems kind of backwards to put a man on a mission he disagrees with, doesn't it?”

  “Not with Anders. It's the perfect punishment for the perfect soldier. He'll carry it out because it's his orders. Plain and simple.”

  The captain laughed. “And you have the luck to get pulled into this with him somehow? So he gets punished and you get rewarded.”

  “Rewarded?” The indignant tone lacing Vasquez's voice was prickly, but nothing new to Reynolds. “Rewarded? Hell, this is as much punishment for me as it is him.”

  “How do you figure? This could be the mission that opens up the war we've all been waiting for.”

  “War we've been waiti– are you as fat a moron as those big-wigs in Elandir? I thought you had more brains between those huge ears, boy. War is never a good option. We could all die today, wallowing in our own blood and piss, and no one would ever know it. That's the nature of covert missions, that's the nature of war, and it's no way to seek fame and glory.”

  “It's just reconnaissance.”

  “Damn it all, you are stupid. Scouting work is as dangerous as it gets, and your men are no Hunters.”

  The truck lurched as they cleared a set of large rocks and began to roll up another lazy hill. The trees were thinning out as they neared the Lorendian Desert.

  “Anders is doing the real scouting,” Reynolds reasoned. “We're just support.”

  “Yeah, because if they get caught and killed, it's likely they'll pat us on the head and thank us for bringing our boys to them. You see how slow we're movin'? And how many damned trucks they sent for such a small team? A fine fool's mission. If they catch wind of us, we'll get fried before we can so much as park these rust-buckets.” The major turned to look out of the window, cursing under his breath as the straggling line came into view well behind him. “Your damned morons can't even drive. Park it before you reach the ridge. We'll regroup here.”

  “We aren't going to make it to the rendez-vous in time to meet Anders at this rate, sir.”

  “With this many god-forsaken trucks and men we'd do him more good not to get that close in the first place,” Vasquez spat.

  The truck lurched to a halt and the engine sputtered out as Reynolds cranked the lever to engage the brake.

  “E
ither way, our timing can't be helped now.” The door refused to open until he gave it a good kick. “Get out here and help me yell at these worthless sacks to get a move on. And bring your rifle. Damned if I'll be caught with my belt over my heels.”

  Reynolds didn't bother suggesting they get the sergeants to do the yelling. Vasquez loved doing that too much himself.

  The dark green and black trucks rumbled steadily on, parking on the hill as they slowly gathered behind the lead. The two commanding officers wandered among them, Vasquez berating Reynolds' men for their numerous character flaws as he kicked tires and slapped hoods. They were losing daylight, he yelled, and he'd be damned if Anders beat him to his own post.

  It took nearly an hour for the entire caravan to regroup. By that point half of the men had emptied out of the transports and laid out in the grass to sleep or talk. Tight muscles stretched against gray cotton as they worked the knots out of their cramped legs and backs. About two-thirds of the vehicles contained soldiers, armed and ready to act as both rear and vanguard for the returning reconnaissance unit. The rest of the vehicles contained basic supplies.

  Things were getting more frustrating than usual for Vasquez. If there was one thing he hated, it was waiting. And thanks to their orders to maintain communications silence, he had to do just that to yell at each driver individually rather than scream at them all at once over a wireless. Most everyone knew the major enjoyed the yelling about as much as any part of his job.

  “What are you clods doing laying about?” Vasquez was back up the hill and on the sleepers like a crotchety panther. “Get your asses up and back in those trucks! We have men's lives in our hands. Move!”

  They obliged, though not quickly. It was a rare day that Vasquez didn't yell at someone in the battalion to do something. In fact, any day they didn't get yelled at tended to send their stress levels through the roof. Especially when the major had assigned himself to a particular unit. Something must be wrong if Vascular Vasquez wasn't popping veins. So, at present, everything was probably fine.

  To Vasquez the worst part of being in the military could be summed up in the old cliché “Hurry up and wait.” He was always being told, and thus in turn telling others to get moving. But inevitably there was nothing to do once they arrived at their rushed destination. Sitting around with nothing to do made him twitch. Not so much that he thought others could notice, but he was paranoid that they could.

  He had just given up the pipe the week before as well. That wasn't helping his nerves. Not one bit. The left side of his mustache jumped at his nose as he watched his men get moving. Half of them were sauntering back to the vehicles when the major felt a hand on his arm.

  “Sir.” It was Reynolds. “Hold on, sir.” He signaled for the men to stop. “Hold up!”

  “What the hell, Reynolds? Are you trying to undermi–”

  “Sir, please.” He held a finger to his lips then extended it to point at a nearby hill.

  They stood in the near-silence of the waxing afternoon. The breeze carried a gentle tone as it brushed through the tall grasses and rustled what few dead leaves dangled nearby. The sky hung broad and open, betraying what few clouds floated by to the unforgiving brilliance of the sun. Nothing presented itself.

  “Well what the hell is it then?” Vasquez couldn't wait any longer. God he hated waiting.

  “I could have sworn I saw somet–”

  Reynolds' words were washed away by a snarl and a scream. Something gurgled and roared from the bottom of the hill. The life of a soldier released in the high-pitched throes of death.

  Every man on the hill jumped to his feet and charged his weapon without a moment's hesitation.

  “Rennat, Boyd, Sartmouth, form up on me. The rest of you take cover and watch our backs.” Vasquez didn't hesitate to move towards trouble. He'd earned a number of nicknames over the course of his career. Of the few he knew, Black Bulldog was probably the most accurate.

  Men from the bottom of the hill scrambled from their trucks. Many of them fell as they ran, others stopped and stared towards the rear of the convoy. What had caused the commotion remained a mystery. The hairs on Vasquez's neck stood upright and writhing as he lowered his stance and moved forward.

  The major raised his assault rifle to his shoulder, slowing and scanning the thick rocks and grasses that surrounded them.

  “Sir, on the other side of the convoy.”

  “I thought I told you to watch my back, Reynolds.”

  “I can do that best from your side, sir.” Reynolds nodded curtly.

  Reynolds was a good man, Vasquez noted to himself as they moved forward. He needed to push that paperwork through on the his advancement.

  The five soldiers moved between two trucks in the line and slowed as they came to the other side. Blood splattered all along the length of the farthest truck. It blended into the black paint well. The metal looked like it was sweating.

  “Holy shit...”

  “What the hell, sir?”

  Two men stood in shock fifty yards on, staring into the tall grass as if it might burst into flames at any moment. From where they stood, Vasquez could only see them from the waist up. They turned in place as they watched. And then, in a flash, they were dragged to the ground in a writhing, screaming, bloody mess. The five men took an involuntary step back as red ruin sprayed and scattered to the breeze.

  “Get your men to the top of the hill, Captain.”

  “Sir?” Reynolds hesitated to obey.

  “Do it, now. I'll be right behind you.”

  Without any further discussion, Captain Reynolds backtracked and began gathering the scattered soldiers as they scrambled up the slope. They were almost to the summit before shots rang out from below. The captain whipped around, eyes darting along the motionless convoy as more shots fired and intermingled with screams. A low, guttural rumble came from among the trucks, spreading and intensifying as the screams died out and went still.

  What's happening?

  He rallied his men, placing the better shots on top of the rocks that rung the summit of the low hill. He grabbed the rest and shoved them in the gaps, facing out in all directions. Their black rifles jutted out like burnt twigs among the dormant foliage of the wilderness.

  Reynolds could feel the pressure building behind his eyes. His heart was pounding. The grass wasn't so tall when standing, but as soon as he knelt it became a maddening obstruction to his sight. Thin, wispy, brown stalks that veiled everything. He vainly brushed some to the side, failing to do more than reveal even more grass beyond.

  The wind twirled around the crest of the hill. Its gentle presence belied the weight resting on the soldiers' minds. They were good men, Reynolds assured himself. They could handle their own. He cleared his throat.

  “Men.” He hoped he sounded more brave than he felt. “Shout 'em out when you spot 'em. Don't let us down and die before you tell us where your death is coming from.”

  The joke elicited no laughter. It felt morbid even to Reynolds as their fate drew near. What was going on? Where was Vasquez?

  Scuttling noises could be heard over the rocks below. Soon the hillside was covered in the noise of claws on stone and shifting grass. The low growl began to build from the direction of the closest truck.

  “Sir! West by north-west, sir!”

  “South by south-east, sir!”

  The directions began to flow out of his men as Reynolds craned his neck to see above the grass.

  “Fire at will, damnit!”

  And with that, the men on the rocks began unloading at ghosts in the weeds. Inhuman, gravelly screams erupted in response. Reynolds' head was spinning as he turned from rock to rock. Trying to see who was shooting at what. Then the men between the stones began to fire as well. The growls and howls of a thousand demons filled the captain's ears. He couldn't regain his orientation as he spun.

  And then the first rock was cleared. In a blur of black and blood the two men on top of the southern-most stone were gone. Screams
rose and fell as the men on the other rocks vanished. Soon the gaps were clearing and the firing was ceasing. Suddenly, Captain Reynolds found himself crouched in the midst of a very empty, very silent battlefield.

  He pressed his cheek into the stock of his rifle. He hadn't so much as placed his finger over the trigger. Everything had happened so quickly. The leather of his glove creaked abrasively in his ear as he clenched his weapon. His aim followed his eyes as they darted in every direction, searching for a target. His flat gray officer's cap sat off-kilter on the side of his head. Sweat beaded on his pale face in spite of the chilled breeze of early winter.

  The grass moved against the wind to his left. Then to his right. The stalks quivered everywhere he looked. The low rumbling noise began afresh, growing to a feverish tenor as he waited. He grit his teeth and stood to face his death. Let it come. He would give it hell.

  No sooner had the thought passed than black stench lunged at him from every direction. He fired his weapon, screaming his courage as dozens of dark blades tore into his flesh.

  MAJOR ANDERS KEATON PULLED THE TAN CLOAK OVER HIS FACE TO PROTECT IT FROM THE SAND. The wind had been merciless over the last two days of their hike through the desert. He felt like grit must have gotten into every crack and crevasse of his body by now. The sand could be as blinding as pulling his cloak up. The nice thing about walking through dunes and the low golden ripples was that there wasn't much to trip over. So long as he saw drops coming before he stepped over them.

  “I never thought deserts could get so damned cold.”

  The lieutenant following him hadn't shut up about the weather for hours. To Keaton it felt like it had been a lifetime of endless whining.

  “I mean, hell sir, bright sandy nastiness like this should be boilin' hot, am I right? I mean, don't get me wrong, sir. I'm not complaining.” He was complaining. “But damned if I can't feel my feet. And my face! If it wasn't numb from the cold it'd be burning from the sand blown all across it.”