The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim

by Jay Swanson

  And then silence, or as close to silence as you could get sleeping among thirty-some men and horses. A few were snoring, some talked fitfully in their dreams, but most slept soundly all around the temple. And at its center, lay Ardin Vitalis.

  They had lain the boy at the northern end of the main hall, a long expanse that ran along the center of the temple. It was free of pillars save at either end, and housed the shrine to some strange animal-looking deity in in the southern alcove. The center held a pit, he assumed it had been used for fires before flames had claimed the rest. Two shoddy piles of stones remained on either side, meant to hold the poles to some spit or pot. Whatever they had been used for, they would never see use again.

  It was time to go. He had to stop putting it off. Time was of more than the essence if he was right about what was going on. There would be no getting away with this, but he could at least accomplish the task at hand.

  He got up lightly, his blanket sliding off of him and to the floor in silence as he crouched. No one stirred, though that meant little enough to him. There were only four men around him in the space that he had chosen; none of their breathing changed. He stood, though not completely, assuming a hunched stature as he worked his way through his comrades.

  The weapons cache had been set up on the other side of a low wall, just north of where he had been sleeping. He swung over a broken section and crouched again, waiting. Silence.

  He reached for a spear, one of the long ones with an oak handle. This one had a scarlet cloth tied at the base of the head. Shill's spear. Fitting, he thought with a sad determination.

  Branston walked lightly through the rubble, picking his way with obsessive care as if the ground were made of rotten ice. The idea wasn't far from the truth, and if he was going to fall through, he didn't want to go alone.

  One more room to the north. He drew himself in closer, weaving through low piles of stone. Hiding. He checked his belt. The knife was still there. It had never left, but it was better to check. Paranoia was a good friend before a fight. He ducked past the wall, through what must have been a door. In turning to his right he could see the boy. Lying. Sleeping.

  Something shifted, there was movement. Someone was coming. He was trying to be silent, but was not as silent as Branston. Branston held his breath, drinking in the darkness as he drew down into its depths. No one would see him here.

  And then Branston saw him. The figure appeared from the other side, walking low. Hunched. Picking his way as if great bear traps lay to either side of his winding path. He slowed as he entered the center of the room and stopped, kneeling next to the boy. It looked like there was hesitation in his posture, but Branston couldn't tell. The figure hopped, throwing one leg over and straddling the motionless body on the ground. Was the boy already dead? He couldn't be. As much as Branston hated to admit it, they needed him. They were lost without him. The boy must live.

  Suddenly the boy shook. A hand shot out to cover his mouth. Branston could see steel glint in the pinprick light of the night sky, and then it was thrust downwards.

  He sucked in one last breath. This was it, he had waited too long already. He hefted the spear and lunged for the figure.

  The spear opened its target as easily as it cut the air. The figure reeled as he shouted, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground. Branston allowed himself a yell as his momentum carried him over his victim. He tripped, and as he came down the spear was wrenched from his grip.

  The figure in the dark was on his feet almost as quickly as Branston. He could sense the frustration. He only hoped he wasn't too late for that frustration to be complete. Even more, he hoped he wouldn't have to pay too high a price for his intrusion.

  The silhouette jerked the spear free of his side, sending a squirt of black to the ground as the weapon clattered on the stone. Branston could swear he saw red glimmer briefly in his hidden eyes.

  “Branston... you high-bred whoreson.”

  “Shill?” Branston could hardly believe it in spite of knowing it to be true. And he was certain of it now – the captain's eyes glimmered an energized red. The power of the Relequim was at work in him. “You old fool, what have you done?”

  Branston drew his knife as the Master of the Royal Bodyguard yelled and leaped at him. The younger man braced with his right leg, lowering his stance as he caught the incoming knife-hand with his own. He lowered his head, letting the weight of the captain connect across his shoulders. They yelled in unison as Branston heaved, rotating the older man in the air and flipping him on his back. He spun around instantly. One knee dropped to pin Shill's armed hand to the ground, while the other pinned his chest.

  “Forgot whose side we're on, have we?” Branston moved his own knife to Shill's throat without another thought.

  Before he could drag it across the old man's windpipe, the world erupted in stars and bright swirls. He grunted, the wind knocked out of him as he was taken to the floor. Three men shouted as they rushed to pin Branston down.

  Torches were being lit as more men converged on the conflict. Rain appeared through the press of soldiers.

  “What's happening here?” she hissed as if afraid to wake the dead that surrounded them. “What are yo– Shill! You're bleeding!”

  Shill made his way lamely towards his royal charge. Blood oozed between the fingers of his hand as he pressed on the wound in his side. He looked like he might faint, and almost fell before he was caught by two of his own men.

  “Snotty bastard opened me up, Highness...” He coughed blood into his free hand. It almost looked black in the flickering torchlight. “Caught him trying to gut our young friend here with my own spear.”

  Branston raged at that. His arms were tied behind his back already as he was thrust to his knees. “Your Highness!” He plead with the only person who could save him now. “It is exactly the opposite! He lies!”

  “Lies?” Shill turned to yell, but coughed more blood. “Surely they must be, as I'm yet some base-born commoner to the likes of you. Isn't that right, Branston?”

  “Enough,” Rain cut into the bickering with venom. “Did anyone see what happened here?”

  But she didn't wait for an answer. Somehow she had failed to check on Ardin. Somehow she had failed to see the gaping wound in his chest. Fresh. Oozing. Pooling under him.

  “Oh God in the higher realm...” She dropped to her knees by him.

  “Your Highness!” Branston yelled as she went limp next to Ardin. Cid stood behind her, sword drawn protectively. “It was Shill, your Highness! It was Shill!”

  Amalgus and Cynder appeared at the edge of the onlookers. Hands on their blades. Branston shook his head. No, he tried to tell them with his eyes. No, you fools.

  “Shut your face, traitor!” One of Shill's men stepped between his captain and his accuser. “Unless you want it opened permanently!”

  All hell broke loose at the open accusation of treason. As little as he was loved, Branston was high-born and wealthy. His father was a counselor to the King. Threats were shouted across the hall, the pitch rising in tenor as fists shook and blades were loosed in their sheaths.

  “Look in his eyes!” Branston was yelling in the midst of the din. “Look and you'll see the truth for yourselves!”

  Swords were drawn. The air rung with metal on leather-bound wood. Sides drew themselves up as Branston and Shill were pulled away from the center.

  “Leave the traitor in the open!” one yelled.

  “Let him prove his innocence with a blade in his hand!” yelled another.

  Cynder and Amalgus stepped into what open space remained. Blades drawn. Teeth bared. The sight of Cynder's four foot-long scythe caused a moment's hesitation, but not hardly as much hesitation as when he spoke. Cynder never spoke.

  “Step forward if you would claim Cynder's friend.” His voice was low. Little more than a growl. “Set foot in Cynder's path. See if you measure up to Cynder. There is no other way.”

  One of Shill's men did step forward. A giant
of sorts, a head taller than any man save Amalgus and as broad as Cynder. “If it isn't Ishtel himself,” the soldier jested. “Come to test his blade before the harvest. Well then, if you'd like to play Brethren, let me play Oscilian and show you the true path.”

  He reached behind himself, unclasping a sword from his back that was almost as tall has he was. The thing barely fit inside the tiny temple. Branston watched with horror as the madness unfolded before him.

  “No, Cynder!” He was yelling. But his cries were lost in the clamor of the mounting bloodlust. There was more at work here than sheer folly. “No! Damn it, you fool! Stand down!”

  But Cynder didn't stand down. Rain's voice joined the noise, calling for peace, heeded as little as the rest. The two men took their breaths, and launched themselves at each other. With them came the men who stood behind. Soon the whole room was alive with the ringing of steel. And Branston could do little more than stare wide-eyed as his countrymen let each others' blood.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ANDERS KEATON COULDN'T HAVE FELT ANY MORE MISERABLE THAN HE DID NOW. The harrowing truth of it all had been made manifest in the preceding two days. He now knew why Lucius had said he would rather be dead than walking the path he was currently on. They watched him closely in case he should try to take his own life.

  Even had the opportunity arisen, he would never have done so. He was waiting for a different kind of opportunity. Biding his time until they slipped. But this situation had certainly presented him with good reasons to kill himself. In some ways, it would be better than continuing a puppet. Better than being used as the poster-child for a war he vehemently opposed. Better than dying for a cause that was set to undo mankind as a whole.

  The truck shook as it hit yet another pothole. The roads south had fallen into disrepair over the winter. Ice had worked its way into the cracks and blistered until gaping wounds were left everywhere. The transport vehicle that he had been confined to offered little protection from the jolts. Each shock took him back to Elandir, to the shells hitting the tower he had been imprisoned in. The carnage that had been unleashed on his people. Had he been alone he might have even wept for his city.

  But the guards sitting with him allowed no such consolation. Rather, he refused to let them see him break. But he was afraid he was already broken. He knew that point was coming. They knew it as well. It was why they paid him so little heed. They hadn't even chained him.

  “I'm going to win this war,” Merodach had said the day before. “I'm going to take the coast. And then I'm going to the southern cites. I'm going to break down the walls of Rinoa. I'm going to sink Rowlands. I'll fill the fountains of Altan with blood. I'm going to end them all.” The pudgy Mayor had smiled at the thought. “Then I'm going to rebuild them, Anders. I'm going to assign them new destinies. And we're going to grow, Anders. Oh how we'll grow!”

  Keaton had felt like throwing up. Merodach was so pleased with his little plan. His little, petty, greedy, short-sighted, massive, overwhelming, world-ending plan.

  “The entire northeastern portion of our continent remains unclaimed, Major. There's so much to be won, so much to be discovered. And we aren't alone, Anders. We aren't hardly alone! Meddlands is ready to rise. Ready to swear their fealty. Silverdale will never be able to send an army north. Not quickly enough. Not without the river. Hell, after this skirmish, we may be able to win the rest with bloodless victories.”

  And that's where Keaton played in, the Mayor said as he walked around his desk. He put those pink hands on Keaton's collar and smoothed where the pins had caught.

  “You see, Anders. If you don't play your part, we'll never galvanize the people. They want to fight now, yes. The attack solidified that much, certainly. But if the city were to lose a man of your stature, someone who so embodies everything it means to be Elandrian... well... they might just catch the passion. And I mean, really catch the passion.”

  Those beady eyes had almost looked pleadingly at Keaton as the Mayor searched his pawn.

  “And that's what I want from you, Anders. I want you to unify the world's most powerful city state behind one cause: to dominate the rest.”

  “Why would I ever do that, sir?” Keaton had to resist the urge to strangle the Mayor on the spot. It helped that there were five other men in the room.

  “I can think of any number of reasons.” Merodach walked off towards a side table with a flourish. He poured himself a drink as he continued. “For love of your country to start. If you do this, you'll save countless lives. Imagine every City State laying down arms before we ever reach them. A unified power like ours is terrible to see. And if Brenton and the Meddlands join us, we'll have a death-grip on the north.”

  “You think the south will just sit by and watch?”

  “Not entirely,” Merodach admitted after taking a sip. “But it doesn't much matter. Few of them have any military force to speak of. Only the western cities were ever truly raised to fight, Major. You know this. And they're all soft from too much God-forsaken peace.”

  “It's quite a feat for three cities to take on nine, assuming the other two commit to your cause.”

  “You still have a mother, don't you, Major?”

  The implication shot lightning up Keaton's spine. His gut dropped into his bowels as he tried to keep his knees from buckling.

  “I thought as much.” Merodach could read him so easily. “It's not much of a question when you already know the answer though, is it? In any case, for her sake, I would play along. I'm not above killing your mother, Anders. I should imagine that much is clear.”

  Keaton cursed the Mayor under his breath.

  “Quite so.” Merodach wasn't fazed to hear it. “And of course your precious men.”

  Anders Keaton swallowed hard as he closed his eyes and let his head tilt back. No, he couldn't take losing any more. God... don't let this happen.

  “Well, Sykes' men to be exact. We've treated them quite well, Major. In fact, most of them have returned to duty since you've been imprisoned. They all believe you to be receiving special medical treatment before you're fully debriefed. At least most of them do. The fact remains, I know it to be your greatest strength. Your love for your men, that is. And thus your greatest weakness is presented in tandem.”

  Merodach stood in front of Keaton, waiting when he opened his eyes again. “If you don't go along with my little plan, I'll flay each and every one of them. I'll have them branded publicly as traitors, collaborators with the enemy or something fitting like that.” The fat bastard had the gall to smile in Keaton's face. “And they all have mothers too, Major. At least, most of them still do.”

  And that was where he was left. The cards had been stacked overwhelmingly against him. What else could I have done? The truck jolted again as they neared Liscentia. I could die a traitor, my men with me. Or they could live... as I die a hero... But the word turned his stomach sour. Hero. He was being just the opposite.

  Merodach was waging his war. It was happening, and there was no stopping it now. The reality of it remained distant and unreal until he heard the noise of it.

  The men in the truck with him grew tense as the sounds of battle rose around them. The thick metal of the cabin muffled the booms and cracks and screams, but they were there. Keaton's stomach remained unmoved. His nerves still. Brow dry. He had ridden enough choppy water getting here. Nearing the end brought a calm he didn't expect.

  The guards set around him were dressed like Khrone's Hunters, though in truth he doubted they were. He had never seen any of them. Odds were they were men fiercely loyal to Rast or Lucius. Though it was hard to imagine anyone in the entire army could be loyal to Lucius. They were to be thrust to the center of the fight, to break through and bring about victory. And it was there that Keaton expected a bullet to the back of his head. More likely his heart. They'd probably want him interred in an open-casket funeral filled with patriotic fanfare.

  A cheer went up as the truck rumbled through the lines. Apparently they had
been spreading the word, but why anyone would cheer for the arrival of a few measly Hunters was beyond Keaton. Their reputation was grossly overdependent on a distant past. His brows drew together at the thought as the corner of his mouth pulled down. Let them cheer. If this was his destiny, he would give them something worth celebrating.

  The truck lurched to a halt as the engine stalled. Doors in the main cabin slammed shut, barely audible in the din of the fight. The doors to the bed swung open, bright light spilling through in spite of the overcast skies.

  “Well, Major.” Lucius had a grin on his face that befit no man in the midst of battle. “Time to break open the fight.”

  The men filed out of the back of the truck. They even handed Keaton a rifle. He was tempted to put it to use right then and there.

  “These are your men now, Anders.” The Hunters' visors and masks made it impossible to tell who they were. “We're trusting you to break their center. Once you're through, circle around and clear out their artillery.”

  “Artillery, sir? What good is that against an infantry advance?”

  “Plenty. They're dropping some nasty shrapnel on our supply lines, not to mention our reserves. The stuff has a brutal kill zone and is making it difficult to bring up our rear to support the fight. You take them out and we can push right over the top of them.”

  How was it possible that Liscentia had managed to mobilize a fighting force so rapidly? Had his intelligence been wrong, or had things moved so quickly while he had been imprisoned?

  “Rogers here has the lay of the land; he'll brief you on your way to the front.” This felt like a real briefing. “Tallheart has your demo gear. As far as we know, there are three guns, Anders. When you've cleared them all, I need you to make for Liscentia. Beat their rearguard to the city, find their central command post, and eliminate it.”

  Now it was starting to sound ridiculous. But they wanted a hero. A hero he would give them.

  “Our reports put it at the northern end of the city. Most of the wireless noise is coming from a warehouse in an industrial complex just within the walls. Slim over there will be able to guide you to it; he's got most of the sensors you should need.”