by Jay Swanson
“I love how this sucks,” said one of the other Hunters behind him with a grunt.
The man next to him laughed. “I wish it would suck more.”
“But it does suck!” The whiner wouldn't be swayed. “God, I hate the cold.”
“Shut up, Trall.” The captain of this unit was a God-send. “If there's sand blowing across your face, you don't know how to strap that mask on properly. Get back and relieve the rear.”
“Aw, Captain. The rear is th–”
“Did it sound like I was making suggestions? Get your ass to the rear.”
Trall slowed down to let his brothers pass him by, grumbling all the while about the injustice of pulling rearguard twice in two days.
“Sorry about him, sir.” The captain was about Keaton's age, but you wouldn't have known from looking at them.
At least Keaton didn't think you would. The captain reminded him of himself just a few months before. Before he had seen his men killed by that little witch in the Rent. Before he had been saved by her friend and left to live where his men had died. It was amazing how much could happen in such a short span of time. How much a man could change. “It's no bother, Sykes. Not really. Part of command is learning to put up with some harmless whining. I've had to deal with my fair share.”
“Aye, sir. But he was crossing the line. Not befitting a Hunter. He signed up for this, after all.”
“True enough. But we both know Khrone's aren't what they used to be.” He would have spared the captain a smile had his face not been wrapped thoroughly behind layers of cloth and his leather mask. He was afraid his smooth-formed visor might even be getting scratched under the scathing windblown sand. Sykes was about the only name he had taken the time to learn in this unit. He felt no urge to get close to any of them. Especially given the nature of their mission. The thought of befriending them brought about the urge to turn and run. Nameless ghosts were far less effective in their haunt.
“Sir, may I ask some frank questions? I'm confused on a number of fronts.”
“You may.” Keaton knew what questions were coming. The captain was sharp; they'd be the same questions he would be asking in this situation.
“What's going on, sir?”
“Too vague, Captain.”
“I mean, what's going on with all the talk of war? Our intel is bad, sir. Liscentia isn't mobilizing, and if they are – they're doing a damned good job of hiding it.”
“Agreed.”
“So why are we so convinced they're aching for a fight?”
“Isn't that why we're here? To see if we're right or not?”
“You really think so, sir?” Sykes hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I don't mean to sound seditious, but are you sure we aren't just a courtesy to the more tender consciences among the brass?”
Sharp kid, Keaton thought. “What makes you think that, Captain?”
“Well, sir. To be honest, when they attached you to my Hunters I thought we were in trouble. Not on account of you directly, sir. But it's no secret you oppose action against the south, and it's less of a secret that Rast would pay to get you killed.”
True enough. Keaton was impressed, if not a little distressed by the captain's awareness of his personal conflicts.
“Well, point is sir, nothing's going on here. But I don't think anyone's gonna listen to you. To us. I'm starting to see that the desire for war is overruling everything else. Which raises the question of why you were attached to us at all.”
“It's not for lack of confidence in you, Sykes. You can rest assured in that.”
“No, sir, I'm not worried about that.” The captain fell closer in step with his commander as he pulled his cloak closer about him. From more than twenty feet away, the two tan-clad Hunters disappeared completely in the granular fog. “I'm worried about you, sir.”
“You're worried that I'm going to be sacrificed for the cause, are you?”
Sykes was visibly taken aback. “Yes, sir... how did you–”
“I'm well loved by the right people, Sykes, of whom there are few. Which leaves me hated by the very worst sorts of people. Of which there are unfortunately many. And yes, the thought has crossed my mind multiple times. What if I were to be assassinated on my way to Liscentia? What if they used that to start a war? It would certainly be a win-win situation in their books.”
They walked in the silence of the howling of the wind for a while. The sand gave way to patches of grass and rock as they began to work their way back out of the Lorendian Desert, north of Liscentia. They had avoided the roads during the entirety of the mission. It was a long march yet north to Elandir, with or without transport. Keaton lowered his head for a while before looking over at the captain next to him.
“I don't have much choice, do I? Orders are orders. But I can tell you this much: I'll be damned if Rast can get his war out of me. Besides, I feel safe enough. I picked your unit for this mission because I could tell how much it upset the colonel. It's usually a good sign when your actions irritate your enemies.”
“Whatever happens, we're with you sir. I'd wager you have the support of all of Khrone's. But that leaves the question: what do we do?”
“We report what we saw. There's no notable movement of troops or resources. Liscentia's as drunk and stupid as it's ever been. They'll keep to themselves.”
“And Silverdale?”
“I imagine that will be where we get sent next. We can just hope that the rest of the Twelve Cities stay out of this long enough to–” Keaton stopped walking mid-sentence. They were perhaps a mile into the hills that bordered the desert by now. He hadn't been keeping track.
He lowered his cloak. The majority of the biting sand had been left well behind by now. Captain Sykes put up a fist, calling silently for a full stop. The men behind them dropped to their knees and did their best to disappear among the sparse grasses.
“What is it, sir?” Sykes barely spoke above a whisper.
Keaton was still scanning the area. He knew exactly what he had seen, and knew he had no time to make decisions. He should have kept his head up; but it was too early for berating himself. There would be plenty of time for that later. If there was anything left to berate.
“Major?” The edge to Captain Sykes' tone hinted at his uncertainty.
Then Keaton found it. “There.” He pointed, for himself as much as anything. “Get your men on the hill to our west and secure it.”
“Sir?”
“NOW!”
Captain Sykes waved three fingers and pointed. In no more motions than that, his men were up and running for a low hill on their left. Major Anders Keaton brought up the rear. Walking backwards. Watching. Waiting. There was no way Rast could be responsible for this. But the coincidence didn't escape him so easily.
“Sir!” The captain was calling for him from the top of the hill, twenty yards behind him now. “Sir, you need to join us. Now, sir!”
The open fear in his voice betrayed the situation. It was as bad as Keaton had figured, if not worse. He turned and sprinted up the hill. No sooner did he turn his back than did dozens of low-running, dark, black creatures emerge from the surrounding hills. The desert to the south seemed clear. But that provided little consolation as it offered no escape.
“What the hell are those things, sir?” Sykes asked as the major rejoined the Hunters.
Keaton turned as he reached them, dropping to one knee and bringing his rifle off his shoulder. He had the cloth coverings undone in a heartbeat. “Shut the hell up and kill the bastards, Captain.”
And with that he opened fire.
TWO
THE FISHERMAN PULLED ON HIS BOOTS IN THE EARLY MORNING LIGHT. The tall grasses swayed gently against the white rock on which he sat. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scents of the Highlands before moving on.
The whole area north of Brenton, known simply as the Highlands, was covered in high, rough, green hills that spanned for miles. Random outcroppings of white rock were scattered across them li
ke the sun-bleached remnants of ancient ruins. Streams started among the higher ridges. Their shallow beds carved into the rock as they descended until cavernous ravines separated one hill from the next.
Some called them mountains. The Fisherman considered few things truly mountainous any more.
Considering his namesake, the Fisherman didn't look much like a man of the sea as he hefted his weapons. His garb was suited much more to that of a seasoned warrior, his armor thick and designed for stopping bullets as well as blades. The high, broad shoulder pads were studded and rose to his temples.
His thick frame was accented by the different materials that wove together to form the armor of the Old Guard. And with his long, greased, white hair and bushy white beard, he certainly looked old enough to be of their number.
But perhaps most striking among his assortment of items and weaponry was his sword. The whole thing was nearly six feet in length from hilt to tip. From the cross guard, it was as broad as his hands were long, before narrowing abruptly to a deadly fine point on one side. Simply carrying it betrayed his strength as much as his skill. If one could understand the runes inscribed in the steel, they would have read much the same.
He hefted it over his shoulder in its blocky leather sheath. It banged lightly against the butt of his rifle as the gun swayed to and fro alongside his pack. Onwards into the northeast he walked, smile fading as the Northern Range came into view. He had intended to take the shortest route possible by sailing a small boat up the river. That plan never came to fruition as he had been stopped almost immediately by a blockade.
His scuffle with the maritime police on the Southern Docks had yet to be forgotten. Especially by the chief of the city police. The corrupt official's mission to silence the Fisherman had been put to a timely end by the Shadow King. The chief had been there on business, the killing of the old man a simple order. But the hunt had since become personal.
After a few nights hiding from the police, the Fisherman had made his way out of town, this time on foot. Climbing the cliffs in the Rent just east of Brenton made for difficult work. Scouts had been sent to scour all paths in and out of the city. His armor wasn't intended for fleeing as much as it was for fighting. He was forced to bring it as he feared he would never again see his home in Brenton.
In the end it had taken him over a week to leave the city. He was beginning to fear he was too late to uncover whoever it was that had killed a Mage in the mountains.
His drive pushed him forward, and the lost ties to Brenton removed any pulls against leaving. He walked steadily, heavy boots falling regularly in the grass, pace never wavering. He wondered which of the mountain hideouts had been found; one he had never known of, apparently. There were so few Magi left. It was hard to imagine that one would be discovered, let alone dispatched, so long after the Purge.
He walked towards the rising sun, wrestling with the fear he would never know who he was looking for – let alone find him.
The three days it took him to get to the upper tributaries of the Rent passed quickly enough. Winding down through the draws and valleys that brought him out of the highlands seemed to constrain his sense of hope as if he were walking through a long series of filters. The weight of his past mingled with that of this self-ordained mission. He wondered why he even bothered with the whole ordeal. Then he saw it.
The shallow waters of the tributary glistened in such a way as to blind him momentarily, the sunlight angling its attack on his eyes with precision. But then there was another reflection, less brilliant, hidden among the low branches of a tree that appeared to have wandered into the river. He stared for a moment, trying to gather what it was he was seeing, when he recognized the curve of its bow.
There was a boat. It had been hauled up on the shore and into the forest on the opposite bank. Its distinctive lines told him in an instant what he was looking at. He searched briefly for a ford, and upon discovering that the deepest section near him came up to his knees, he took off wading through the frigid water.
He moved up the shore to the boat and tore the branches off of it, sensing the tattered remains of the enchantments that had been set upon it to hide it. He didn't know much of magic any more beyond the feel of its presence, but these were ill-maintained. Their creator had either forgotten them or had passed on.
By the looks of the branches and the surrounding plant life, it hadn't been there for much more than a month. He wondered if this boat belonged to the Mage who had been murdered. It was certainly large for such a shallow river. He marveled at the ability of the Magi not only to create such beautiful things but to bring them swiftly into such remote places.
And then he noticed the engraving on the stern of the ship. He recognized the runes, the symbols that marked the boat for its owner and identified it among its peers. This had belonged to the First Mage, to Caspian. His heart sank. Charsi's daughter had come back. Or perhaps Caspian had returned? But no, he never would. Had he sent the girl? Whether he had was beyond the Fisherman's ability to tell. But it had to be her. It was the only thing that made any sense. He immediately began searching for clues as to her whereabouts.
It didn't take him long to discover the small dock and stairs that led to the water where the boat had initially been moored. Beyond that he couldn't find signs of anyone's passage. He wondered if the boy was with her. The two of them had been in such danger. He worried it had finally caught up to them.
With nowhere else to turn, he began walking along the stone path. The thick foliage growing on the forest floor made it more difficult than it should have been. Another day's hike led him into the foothills of the Northern Range. Before he knew it, he was walking among the first of the tall, gray mountains.
He worked his way through the first pass that would take him into the Range. He paused for a moment as he looked back, wishing that he could pass through the White Forests. It had been a long time since he had walked among the rustling leaves that so calmed the soul.
The sun was setting, almost two weeks since he had first seen the signs of a Mage dying in the mountains. He was thinking to make camp along the path winding through the pass when he crested its final summit. And there it was, a valley filled with dirt and dust and stone and ash. There had been a beautiful lake here once, he was certain of it. Even though he hadn't been here in decades, he still knew the place.
In the northwestern corner of the valley stood the burned out shell of one of the tallest peaks in the Northern Range. It looked like a tree half-chopped by lumberjacks and on the verge of toppling over. He dropped to his knees at the sight. The failings of his past flared to new life. How could he have let another Mage die in obscurity? If the Magi had been completely destroyed, had his oaths been for nothing? Had he lived and fought and bled... for nothing?
A renewed sense of loss wrapped itself around him. Constricted his breathing. Cid the Cleaver lowered his eyes and prayed against the darkness that threatened to claim him.
HE DOESN'T KNOW WHERE HE IS. The smoke and haze of the fires have died down, leaving the world devoid of light. Somehow he passes from fire to darkness like the changing of the seasons. He looks around, wisps of ethereal ash whirling past his face as he strains to see through the dense darkness that surrounds him.
He is standing. He finds he can walk, mobile after lying paralyzed for so long. He takes a few tentative steps, unable to assure himself that where he moves will be solid ground.
“There you are,” a thin voice penetrates the grainy silence that buffets his ears. “I've been looking for you a long time.”
He doesn't respond in any way he wishes he would. He stays silent, retreating into himself as the cold fear grips him and sends shivers between his shoulder blades. He pulls his arms in, biting his fingers silently as he waits for the source of the voice to show itself. Praying that it won't, berating himself for his cowardice.
“Where did you think you would escape to?” The voice seems to come from different directions.
He cle
nches his eyes shut, wishing only to shrink himself to safety. To obscurity. To forget and be forgotten.
“You can't hide, little boy,” comes the voice, so strange and so familiar all at once. “You can't escape me. You can't run. You have no power here.”
He remembers something of himself at the mention of his power, but shudders under the cold assertion of his helplessness. He wants to disappear. His heart shrinks and pulls away in obedience to the desire, leaving the rest of him jealous to follow.
Despair. It has become so familiar he hardly takes notice of it any longer.
Cold, bony fingers slowly wrap around his neck, causing his shoulders to shrug involuntarily. He forgets what little of himself he thought he knew, his mind focused on willing the hand to leave him. Guilt wracks him for a moment, senseless, unfounded, linked somehow to the burning village he left behind moments before. Was it so soon? It could have been ages ago that he was there.
“Yes,” the voice hisses. “Your apathy, your lethargy, your burden to bear.”
“I'm not...” he stutters, jaw set against the violation of his neck. “I'm not defined by my failure.”
“But you are,” says the voice, venom spewing against this last resurgence of strength, this resistance to its will both unforeseen and unwelcome. “You are weak, worthless... your failures have not only defined you, they have set those you love on paths to destruction. Death, torment; these are the gifts you offer. These are the burdens you bear and unload willfully on those who would trust you.”
He knows this to be true. Somehow, deep within himself, he can only cede the point, can only give way to the hissing voice in the darkness. It seems to know so much of what he himself has forgotten.
Its grip tightens on his neck, drawing the warmth from his body as it squeezes slowly. He cries out, knowing no one hears him; no one cares. He deserves this. The slow and cumbersome approach of his death has sought him for what feels like years. Now it is finally upon him. Perhaps he is already dead. It doesn't much matter.
