The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim

by Jay Swanson

“This sucker's laser-guided through the sights and everything. Compact. Long range. I can guide it to wherever you want it to go, sir, so long as I can see it from here.”

  “Then guide it to those containers on the other side of the gun.” Keaton pointed to where an obscene number of the beasts were mangling the dead.

  “You mean the artillery cache, sir?”

  Keaton nodded.

  “Good choice.” And with no further ado he flicked the cover off the trigger, lit the laser, and launched the rocket.

  To Keaton's initial confusion, he launched it at an upward angle. There was a heavy boom as the rocket seemed to float off, then suddenly it came to life as its own propulsion system engaged. It aligned itself with the laser then as it shot off, and Tallheart swung his aim down towards the ammunition stores below. He did it with a graceful skill that betrayed his experience. The rocket followed a gentle arc before he brought it down, slamming it into the crates.

  The resulting explosion was catastrophic to the surrounding area. Black bodies flew in every direction as a the explosions cascaded into a deafening cacophony. Keaton smiled as hundreds of the monsters died.

  But then something strange happened. The fight stopped. The beasts seemed to freeze for a moment, many of them staring at the smoking wreckage. And then Anders Keaton's worst nightmare began to unfold, they all looked straight at his hill. Every single one of them.

  As with a singular purpose of mind, the monsters turned and rushed in his direction. There were hundreds. Possibly a couple thousand. His gut dropped to his boots. This was bad. Really, really bad.

  “Sykes!” He yelled. “Tighten up!”

  Tallheart picked up one of the snub-nosed launchers. Its circular magazine held seven rounds that would rotate into place after their predecessor had been fired. Keaton picked up the other one.

  “You said the range on these things was about two hundred yards?”

  “Yes sir.” All the joy of a moment before had left the young man's voice.

  “Which means they'll be in range...”

  “Just about...”

  “Now!” Keaton did his best to pick out a cluster of the things, but he had only used one of these launchers in training years ago. His aim was high, and he only managed to kill two of the monsters with his first shot. His second was closer to the mark. And his third hit dead on.

  Tallheart, on the other hand, lobbed each shot with judicial precision. The monsters came on like a school of hairy fish. They broke around each crater of death that opened in their way only to come seamlessly together on the other side. They flowed. Claws sprung out ahead, gripping sand and dirt and flinging their bodies ahead in sickening repetition.

  Before he knew it, Keaton was out of explosives and had scarcely put a dent in their numbers.

  “You have any more tricks in that bag, Tallheart?”

  “Just stuff you could throw, sir.”

  “Then get ready to throw it all. The rest of you, pick your targets and aim well. Take clean shots, don't just fire into the mass or you won't hit anything worthwhile.”

  The monsters were within a hundred yards now, nearing the base of their little hill.

  “I'd really hoped to never find myself in this situation again...” Keaton said to no one in particular. “Pick your damned targets well!” He took a deep breath. “Open fire!”

  The monsters fanned out as they hit the base of the hill, sweeping to the sides as if to envelop the entire mound. Keaton was glad in that moment that he hadn't called all of his men to one side. The rapid cracks and barks of the guns around him seemed beyond inadequate to the challenge. They were headed up the hill now. He saw many in the first line drop, only to be trampled by the hundreds that followed. Then the entire first few rows disappeared with a shock in a cloud of dust and blood.

  Tallheart's mines gave Keaton a brief taste of hope. But it was only seconds before the next wave came flying through the haze and brought back the acrid savor of despair. He fought it down and brought his own rifle to his shoulder.

  Keaton picked off three in a heartbeat. He kept the gun moving, finding any point in the line that seemed to be gaining and picking off the leaders. He whipped the gun to his right, firing at one and then the next that took its place. Brought the gun back to the left, clearing three out of the way with two bullets. Skill pumped thoughtlessly into his fingers with the adrenaline. He pointed back down the hill directly in front of him and unloaded the rest of the magazine.

  Muscle memory took over as his hands swapped the empty clip for a full one thoughtlessly. He had a fresh round in the chamber before the monsters had taken three more steps. They were within twenty yards. The killing was about to begin in earnest. It would be over soon.

  He shot two more between the eyes before flipping his gun to automatic and sweeping the entire line. He stood. Let the bastards see him. He doubted they felt fear, but if they did, he wanted them to know who it was they should. He yelled as the churning blackness barreled into his men. They didn't really tackle or pounce so much as bowl into them. One after the other was taken down in a flurry of claws and long legs. And soon there was nothing left standing between Keaton and a sea of death.

  He threw his rifle at the nearest beast, drawing the short sword from his thigh as the first one lunged at him. He swept the blade across its throat as he stepped lightly to the side. But three more were already leaping. Major Anders Keaton bellowed his war cry as he spun to the kill.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE WAY TO ILTHULN PROVED FAR MORE COMPLICATED THAN THE SHADOW KING HAD INITIALLY ANTICIPATED. The three day hike to the opening of the pass into the valley Albentine had taken him a week. Patrols swept the foothills with enough regularity to leave him wondering if a whole army wasn't dedicated to the task.

  The hike into Albentine itself was harrowing; the steep walls of the narrow gorge prevented any alternative escape. The Dragon's Teeth themselves were a ring of mountains most considered impenetrable. Albentine was the only entrance he actually knew, and there were two towers at its entrance, which were very much new to him. Neither seemed accessible from the ground. He wondered how the men that were stationed there came and went. All that really mattered to him was what they could and couldn't see.

  He watched for a day as patrols entered or exited the valley on a regular schedule. From end to end, the pass was almost five miles long, three of those were hemmed in completely by sheer rock. It was obvious to him that he would have to make his attempt at night. What was not obvious was whether or not it was worth the risk. There were other ways into the Spring Vale, at least so he had been told. None so quick, and none so sure, but none so well protected either.

  The Shadow King would make it through the pass, he decided. He wasn't sure he could find any other way on his own, and Albentine was familiar territory.

  Night came quickly enough, as more mounted patrols came and left the valley. They were certainly on high alert. At least they weren't likely to be caught off guard by the Demon's forces. That gave him a sense of comfort. He wished no ill on those he was about to betray, though the hypocrisy of the sentiment didn't entirely escape him.

  He slid through the trees and craggy boulders as he made his way towards the sheer granite peaks. There was no mountain range in the world as impassable as the Dragon's Teeth. It was what kept the capital of the Western Kingdom perfectly protected, so he had been told. To look at them one had little trouble believing it to be true.

  Gaining entrance to the valley was simple enough in the cover of darkness. His black armor and cloak hid him well enough from prying eyes, as did his skill. Torches illuminated the mouth to the valley more than he would have liked, but he was able to slip through in the shadows nonetheless. He didn't even feel the need to jump into the metaphysical to avoid detection.

  The hike up into the pass went well enough. It leveled out so much that it didn't truly feel like walking uphill. If he remembered correctly, there were only two curves in the path that coul
d obstruct his view ahead. But as he had hoped, the patrols at night were less frequent in their passage and he was left with enough time to make it through.

  Or so he thought, until he came around the first winding bend. In his path stood two more towers, which were no problem in themselves, but between them was a gate. A gate as tall as the walls of the gorge, roughly forty feet high. The Shadow King stopped and put his back to the wall, listening and watching for signs of life. The area here was as well-lit as torches could get it, which wasn't very well at all, but it still gave him reason to pause. He had wondered why there was no gate at the mouth any longer; it made some sense now. This was a far better death trap.

  The gates opened as a mounted troop of ten came through from the other side. He lowered himself behind a cluster of stones, jutting up like dull teeth from the bend. They rode by after a minute, torches licking the wind and making long shadows jump all about him. The hooves of their coursers left a light dust floating in the air. He turned again to watch as the gates were swung slowly back in place. The double portcullis dropped noisily on both sides of the thick wood.

  He could climb it, but if anyone was watching from the towers, he would easily be seen. There would be another patrol soon, he reasoned. One had always entered the valley a few minutes before one exited. If that held true at night they would be here in just a matter of minutes.

  He would need to be closer, but not much. He followed the wall of the gorge as it straightened out. There were a good hundred yards between himself and the gates. If this were to be a true trap for an advancing army, they should have put some sort of bastion on the slope above him. The crossfire between that and the towers would make it a truly lethal patch of road. He turned to look and ducked immediately, cursing under his breath.

  There was a bastion up there, well hidden from the other side. He hoped the darkness was enough to enshroud him. He would have to make the jump to get out of here. He was certain of that now.

  Shod hooves clipped and clanked on stone as the incoming patrol came within earshot. The Shadow King decided it was better to be early than late, and made the jump. He floated off towards the gates, hoping that they hadn't come up with some form of primitive shelter to protect them. Thankfully, they hadn't. He made it to the portcullis, floating in the uncomfortable formless space between the physical and the spiritual. He hated it here.

  It wasn't difficult for him to make out the gates. They loomed large even in the mists of this world. The torches gave off small amounts of energy that helped to guide him to them. He could feel the portcullis rise as it disturbed the Atmosphere like ripples on a pond. The gates swung back, and he floated through. He decided to continue on for a while. He didn't know what was on the other side, but he couldn't jump back too close to the walls.

  The horses rode past, churning the gray fog of the Atmosphere with their passage. How the Magi managed to control the stuff, let alone turn it into energy, was beyond the Shade. He was just glad that he wasn't dependent on it. But then again, he reasoned, he was more so now than he had ever been. The thought made him turn in place, focusing his awareness on the mists themselves. They seemed to be loosely attached to him, trailing him as he went. That was new.

  He made the jump back after a few hundred yards. The second curve was just ahead, another fortified position sticking out at its head. The merlons on the low walls looked like the lower half of some jagged jaw. He wondered if it was manned. But thankfully he was silent and lithe enough not to find out.

  Upon reaching the Spring Vale, he found he had more problems. A village had apparently sprouted at the foot of the pass. It too had gates, its fortress-like barbican even larger than the one he had already passed. He decided he didn't have time for it and made his way up the northern slope that branched out above them. It was left unguarded as the sheer drop was enough to dissuade anyone from using it as an entrance point into the vale. But to the Shadow King, it was a suitable way in. He walked up near the top where the footing turned treacherous, approached the edge, and launched himself out into space.

  He loved this, even more now that he had gotten to actually fly. He let the wind rush past him, ripping at his cape as he plummeted to the grassy plain below. At the last second he dissolved, his momentum immediately lost to the fog. It only took him a second to right himself as he alighted where the ground should be. He reappeared as from a mist, walking north so as to circumvent the vale.

  He didn't want to run into any more patrols, and he figured that sticking to the ring of the mountains would keep him clear enough. It amazed him how the whole place was laid out. It was as if a deep valley had been filled with soil to make a nice even plain that ran right up to cliffs and mountains that should have soared above them.

  The mountains farther out in the ring did soar. White granite. Pristine. As dawn rose, they shifted colors with the rising light. The snow on the highest of them made the rest appear slightly gray, but they were immaculate. The Dragon's Teeth. From here they looked every bit the part. He wondered if they were still enough to keep real dragons at bay.

  In the distance he could make out Islenda. Bright and beautiful, very much resembling the mountains around her. Her walls were tall and slanted, much like Elandir's, but white and ornately decorated. The towers that jutted out from them and up from within were far more beautiful than the pragmatic square bastions of Elandir. The whole city had been built of the granite that surrounded her. The strong contrast she held to the broad green fields that engulfed her was breathtaking. The Spring Vale was a mystery of creation, in spite of the high elevation it maintained an almost eternal spring. Never too hot, and never too cold. Some called it a paradise.

  The Shade entered the tall black forest they called the King's. The Renaults were good, honest rulers, but they still kept a few things to themselves. He hoped the warden wouldn't mind his transgression, but here he felt covered, and as the sun rose, he ran. The Kingswood was just as level as the rest of the vale. On the other side he knew there was a footpath that wound into the mountains. If it was still there, it would intersect with the road that led to Ilthuln, and to his goal.

  The path was easy enough to find, and the cleft through which it ran was blessedly deep in the rock. Like a winding staircase, it ran a serpentine pattern that climbed upwards more than it advanced forwards. It actually made him sweat to climb it, and it felt strange to him at the same time. It was as if he were miles up the side of a mountain, and yet the broad clear vale stood only a hundred yards below.

  The path took another broad sweep across the face of the mountain before it dove up and into the ravine that would take him to the road. He paused a moment, looking back on the Spring Vale and the White Citadel it housed. He smiled, though the feeling was tinged with remorse. In the end he would save her, he knew as much to be true. He only wished the path he took wasn't so shrouded in fog. He hoped they would understand, but in his heart he knew they never would. His determination was winning out easily over the conflicting emotions now. It was time to set things to rights.

  The Shadow King turned and made an end to his climb. The mountains grew close around him before he found the road. It was ill maintained, though still level and clear of obstructions. No trees grew up this high. It would seem the treeline was left in the vale. It was another three miles of incline before he finally reached the Last Valley. Fittingly named after they had begun to call the mountain it guarded the End of the World. The bridge they had built over it was short, as the Last Valley was more of a rift in the rock. The bridge was broad, however, as they had intended it to be readily accessible by an army in an emergency.

  The Shadow King had no army, and no more need of secrecy. If word were to escape Ilthuln, it would never reach help in time. A horn blew from the tower as he crossed the bridge. The note was long and deep, as it dropped an octave. It rattled the pebbles on the road from their resting places and gave the Shade pause.

  The whole fortress was built into the side of one huge mo
untain. It looked much like a crude mimicry of the Cathedral it protected. Off to the right of the bridge and road the world spun away into a sheer drop of nearly a mile. The foundation of the tower on the Shade's right ran just to the edge of it. Its counterpart on the left was as tall and embedded into the steep slope of the peak. And between them stood the Mouth of Ilthuln. The gates were covered in blackened spikes and barbs. Long, pointed, iron strips shot from top and bottom to secure the thick wood, giving the appearance of teeth and lending the Mouth its name.

  Blue and white canvas flapped in the wind as massive oil basins burned hot against the mountain chill. Over the barbican that housed the Mouth rose a gatehouse that served as home to the garrison that watched it. Huge windows filled with warped and swirling glass stood to either side, while at the center, an ornate granite balcony jutted out ten feet. It was on that balcony that two oak doors swung slowly open.

  Onto the balcony stepped a heavyset man with a wiry gray beard that ran over his rotund belly and under his belt. He wore a thick leather skullcap that was weighed down on his brow by an iron circlet. Under a cloak of thick gray furs, he wore a bulging leather breastplate. Bronze disks were attached all over the armor, leaving him glittering dully in the warm light of the fires that burned to either side of the balcony.

  In his hand he held a spear. At its end snapped a blue banner emblazoned with a solitary gray mountain. He sauntered to the end of the balcony, resting a fur-lined glove on the banister as he watched his visitor. Suspicion lined his face so deeply it might have sunk into the skin.

  “Do my old eyes betray me?” His deep voice echoed in the close space between the stone. “Or do I see one of the famed Shadow Warriors of my childhood?”

  The Shadow King smiled as he took a step forward. “Your eyes have maintained their youth, my lord. Much unlike your beard.”

  “What could a Shade seek in the bowels of the earth, pray tell? This is no hospitable village, and these are no lands for commerce.”