Rise of the Fallen

by Robert Stanek

  For the past few days they had entered the gate together, sharing themselves with each other in those moments in ways that Rastín did not quite understand but had began to look forward to. Today, however, Akharran pushed Rastín ahead of her, forcing him into the gate alone.

  Entering the dark land alone, he felt the sudden sting of loss—loss of a thing he could not quite name. For a few heartbeats he seemed juxtaposed in time and place, as if living two lives. In one, he was not just with the Wërg but a Wërg. In the other, he was elf kind and knew his father waited for him to return from the day’s labors.

  Akharran set him to rights, wrenching him from the gate platform and out into the dark land. She was increasingly on edge whenever they worked the excavation site. It did not help matters that the last unearthing had been Holsteb’s, days ago, and with each passing day the overlords and the enforcers became increasingly brutal and merciless.

  The tackmaster Zrteth placed a harness of wood and leather around his neck and waist, and then attached ropes to the harness. He said nothing to Rastín, but he had plenty to say to Akharran before sending both on their way with a large eight-wheeled cart train overflowing with ropes, pulleys, and excavation gear.

  Together they moved out across the fields and up into the high lands. Rastín did most of the work, as Akharran seemed to want nothing to do with pulling and pushing the cart. At the dig site, Akharran became so distant that Rastín dared to speak to her openly, asking her, “Still wrong?”

  Akharran’s response was to throw the boulder she was shouldering at him instead of into the cart. Rastín’s quick reflexes allowed him to jump easily out of the boulder’s path. Looking up as he did so, he saw Akharran express emotion in the way of his people—feelings of sorrow and anguish that reflected Rastín’s own conflicted feelings.

  At midday, Akharran spoke to him openly for the first time, telling him, “Madness comes. Danger, great danger.”

  Rastín sat beside her. “Madness?”

  “Angry madness. Danger.”

  Rastín tried to understand what she was telling him. When she repeated herself and he smelled her fear, he finally understood. He replied with the exact same phrasing, “Angry madness. Danger.” Then he dared to speak a word aloud in his own language. That word was “war.”

  Akharran erupted into a frenzy, capturing his expression just as he said it—a mixture of sorrow and anguish—and passed this out to other Wërg. It became their watchword. Akharran and other Wërg repeated it over and over in the transition corridor on the return from the dark land, and Rastín felt self-loathing build within him each time they did so. He was the one to give a name to the thing the Wërg had never known before the ageless came to their world.

  In her hollow, Akharran did something she had never done before. Instead of sending Rastín to the bathing hole, she sat him down and commanded him to speak to her. Rastín defied her and went to the bathing hole instead. He lingered in the cool waters longer than usual; and although he wanted to refuse food, his hunger was such that he could not.

  Akharran looked pleased when he joined her in the large round and approached the eating stone. She insisted he sit beside her and he did so. On the eating stone, she had arranged more food and drink than he had ever seen before. Wërg food consisted mostly of roots and tubers, much of which was grown in dark chambers within the hollows where they lived. Some roots and tubers were served raw. Others were cooked, dried, or pounded into powder or paste. Some powders and pastes were mixed with water to make flavored drinks of a sort he had never had before.

  Akharran’s close attention to him as he ate told him she wanted something from him but either did not know how to ask or was waiting for the right time to ask. He was surprised when she said nothing and instead made it clear she wanted something else entirely. Rastín complied, giving himself to Akharran as she gave herself to him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Days among the Wërg turned into many turnings, and Rastín began to yearn for a return to his people. He wanted more than anything to see his father and speak aloud in his own tongue. Akharran saw this and understood his longing. In the dark land while they worked, she would extend certain kindnesses to him that she extended to no other Wërg. These kindnesses helped him endure the heightened cruelty of the overlords and enforcers as they claimed of flesh what they could not claim through discovery. Discoveries in the dark land had become things of the past, and everyone suffered as a result.

  Rastín was glad the Wërg were a hardy people who found ways to sustain themselves. Other peoples were less fortunate. Day by day there were fewer and fewer working the excavations. Whole peoples faded away, and Rastín saw their kind no more.

  This day as they returned from the highlands, Akharran was distant, and Rastín did not understand why. It was not until they were within sight of the thousand-fold gates that she grabbed his arm, signaling him to stop. When he turned to face her, she pulled his hand to her stomach and then said, “War.” If she were elf kind, he would have sworn that she had tears in her eyes when she said it. He had never seen Akharran or any Wërg express emotion in this way, so he cast the thought aside.

  He tried to speak, but she interrupted him. “Danger, great danger,” she told him. “Rastín Dnyarr Túrring of the Élvemere people must now remember.”

  After she said it, she moved toward the gates with a speed Rastín had never seen before. He could not keep up with her, and he soon lost sight of her among the masses waiting to return to the immortal city of the ageless. He wandered through the lines, searching for her, risking the chains, ignoring the whips from high above that sought to keep him in his place.

  It was Wërg who herded him toward the platform, often taking blows in his stead, and Wërg who saw him through the gate though he entered the gate alone. The bitter cold of the space between brought a feeling of such loneliness that it seemed his soul shook with the ache of it. Indeed, he emerged from the gate shaking. Walking through the transition corridor and into the city, he hardly saw anything.

  Only when he was standing before the ashes of his father’s pavilion did he realize that he was back among his kind. But as he stood there, caked in mud, looking like a thing he was not, he might as well have been invisible. His people did not see him.

  There was one other among the ashes of his father’s pavilion. His name was Alborn, and he was a trusted guard. Rastín had not seen the old guard at first because he was kneeling in prayer.

  Rastín quietly approached Alborn. The aged guard did not turn or start at the sound of Rastín’s approach. Instead he waited until Rastín was standing directly behind him, and then said quietly, “You have returned. I hear you in your gait. Under earth, leather, and wood, I smell you; but I do not see you.”

  As Alborn stood and turned, Rastín understood there was much unsaid behind those words, for the Alborn he saw was not the Alborn he had known. The Alborn he had known carried a great sword. He had kind eyes and a face that spoke quietly of respect held close. The Alborn standing before him carried a walking stick, had no eyes and a face with cheeks so hollow that they seemed to be those of the dead. Rastín wondered if Alborn had passed on and only lingered here before setting off for the blessed land.

  That illusion was broken when Alborn gripped Rastín’s arm to steady himself and said, “Quickly now, we must be away.”

  Alborn led him to a tent on the far side of the burned area where King Túrring’s pavilion had stood. Once inside the tent, Alborn closed and secured the entrance.

  “Your father joined your mother in the blessed land four turnings back to the day, to the toll,” Alborn urgently explained. “At the end I thought there was only one thing he longed for in this life, and that was to see your return. It was a mistake on my part, the first of many.

  “In the instant of your father’s passing, the serpent magi departed, never to be seen again. Chaos found us as soon as it was discovered you had not returned. I did my best to keep this quiet. I pretended f
or days that you were among us, grieving your father. My eyes, my cost. Gouged out by one of the ageless themselves.

  “Your father’s rivals set fire to the pavilion. A loyal few could not prevent it, nor stop the flames from spreading.”

  Rastín wrapped his arms around the old guard and wept openly. “You did your duty as best as you could, better than anyone else could have done. You’ve paid such a price for loyalty, and I have nothing to repay you with.”

  “My loyalty cannot be bought or sold, paid or unpaid. My family has served since the reckoning—the day the Élvemere people were enslaved—and before. Though you have not been crowned, you are my king now as your father was before.”

  “Shodjen—”

  “—and others. The factions are many, numbering more than ever imagined. Nearly every great house. Nearly every great family. We are a fractured people now. If you were to return into this chaos, you would suffer Djerg’s fate or worse.”

  “Dear, loyal, faithful Djerg, too?”

  “His body hangs where it happened. I dare not fetch it down, though I did not hesitate to cut his heart through when they started on him. My vows, my cost; my life spared for renouncing you. Djerg begged me to do what I must. I did what must be done because there was no other to do it, yet at the cost of my soul.”

  Suddenly feeling older than his cycles, Rastín spoke with his father’s voice and his father’s words. “There is no shame, Alborn son of Jfe, for doing what must be done.”

  As he spoke, Alborn collapsed at Rastín’s feet, his hot tears falling on Rastín’s hands. “You are your father’s son. You are not a specter sent to torment me.”

  Rastín felt the same, but he did not say so. Instead he waited for Alborn to continue his confession and relieve the burden he carried. “His voice is in my ears…His voice I shall hear always. It is my punishment, the mark of my crime.”

  “There is no crime in unquestioning loyalty, Alborn son of Jfe. If it was to be done, better you than the alternative.”

  Alborn sat back on his haunches and found bitterness. “And would you wish the same?”

  “If it must be done and if there were no other way, I would.” Rastín said it quickly and without hesitation, for he meant every word. “You gave Djerg mercy when no other would. You carry the pain they wished to inflict, but you must let this go now if you’re to be of service to me.”

  “How can the blind and starved be of service to anyone?”

  “You have already been of service. When you saw me your first instinct was to protect me, and you’ve done so.”

  “My first instinct was to be selfish. I should not have done so for I have played you falsely. There is no place for you here. You must know this. Twice bitter is hope given then snatched away.”

  “You, dear friend, have listened too long outside my father’s door. Your words have his voice in them.”

  Alborn regained his feet with Rastín’s help. Then, while looking without seeing, he said, “As do yours.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rastín’s reunion with his people was twice bitter, as Alborn had said it would be, and the approach of morning only made things more dire. Long ago Alborn was granted the right to remain in the camp, and that right had not been revoked. Few of the living had that right, and Rastín was not one of them. If he remained in the camp, and was found out, those who served the ageless would decide his fate. If he left the camp, and was found out, his father’s enemies would decide his fate. Either would bring death. But now exhaustion overcame him and he slipped into a deep sleep.

  He awoke some tolls later, but well before the sounding of the first toll, to find Alborn preparing what meager fare the old guard could scrounge. He did not doubt Alborn had also added some things he had secreted away previously and had been keeping in case a need arose. He did not want to eat what little remained of the old guard’s food, but to refuse would be an insult; so he ate as Alborn sat nearby. He praised the old guard as sincerely and affectionately as he could, because Alborn was all that remained of his father and his past life.

  Rastín finished eating. Immediately Alborn stood and said, “I’ll escort you to the dig. You’ll be safe until you reach the gate and likely while you work. It will be on the return, when word has spread, that you’ll need to be on your guard. They will come at you then, whether in the lines or in this camp, and there will be no safe ground until they’ve killed you or you’ve won.”

  Rastín reached forward and clasped hands with the old guard. “There is no need for you to leave camp. No need at all.”

  Alborn thought otherwise.

  “Few others have had the run of this camp and much of the city since our fall,” he said carefully. “And though I may not see with my eyes, I am not blind. No other knows this camp as I do. I will deliver you to the gate.”

  “You will not be able to return and it will mean your—” Rastín’s voice dropped off.

  The sounding of the first toll spoke for them both. An awkward silence followed until Alborn broke it. “We will wait until much of the camp clears, and then I will take you along the outer path. I carry the sign of the ageless. The guardians will not challenge me, but you must help me do something about my appearance and yours.”

  Water was one thing they had in abundance, so Rastín helped Alborn clean himself up then did the same. Afterward, Alborn excused himself and went out into the camp.

  Alone, there was nothing to keep Rastín’s dark thoughts in check. Suddenly, he felt an unbearable weight—the weight of his people and futures lost. He could not breathe. He needed air. He needed to think, but he began to doubt. Many tocks of the toll had passed and Alborn had not returned. Had Alborn betrayed him?

  He whirled around at a movement behind him, but it was only Alborn returning with two weather-stained but otherwise good cloaks with hoods. Yet something else was wrapped within the cloaks, which Alborn presented on bended knee. Rastín could not believe his eyes as he lifted the cloaks and saw what was hidden within. He touched the shards as one would touch the most precious jewels.

  “Each piece has been carried by one of the loyal these many cycles,” Alborn told him. “Though you were born a slave and have never walked the land of our people, I know in my heart that this belongs to you, for you are my king.”

  “Where? How?” began Rastín, not quite knowing what to say.

  “Though few, the loyal remain. When commanded, they act without question. I have asked from them the one thing they hold dearer than their own lives, so you may have it now and be the one to carry it forth for our people. It does not come without burden.”

  “You have been its keeper through it all?”

  “I alone have been the keeper of nothing save your father’s will. The others are its true keepers. Accept only if you can give that which can never be reclaimed. Refuse and I must see this returned to those who will carry it for our people. I don’t mean to hurry your decision, but the second toll will sound soon and I must know before then.”

  Alborn knew Rastín had accepted before Rastín ever spoke aloud. On his signal, a young elf maiden entered. She was lithe and slender, like most of his kind, with a well-kept mane of silver. Her skin, bronzed by the suns, seemed to glow, and her overly large gray eyes seemed able to probe hidden depths. “She is Dierá. She will stitch the shards in. Remove your clothes quickly now to the skin. No time for modesty. Her skill is exceptional, and only a true blade will get out what she stitches in.”

  Rastín did as he was asked. He expected Dierá to stitch the shards into his clothing, but her hands and Alborn’s were upon him before he knew what was happening, and the shards were being sown into his flesh. He would have cried out in surprise, and in fact he guessed that he had; but Alborn and perhaps others had a hand or hands over his mouth to muffle his screams.

  When it was nearly over and he had recovered enough to see past the pain, Rastín saw that Alborn had indeed been joined by others, the elf maiden Dierá he had been introduced to
and two other elf maidens he did not know.

  But the ordeal was not over. He was still being held down and Dierá was straddled across his chest sowing in the last shard. When she finished, she pushed herself against him and spoke into his ear of how the shards must be remade. The touch of her body to his was electrifying. It was all he could think about while she pressed against him, and it took the pain from him even as her words wormed their way into the deepest parts of his mind.

  The second toll sounded as Dierá moved off him and he was allowed to stand. When he did, he turned angrily to Alborn and asked, “What have you done?”

  Alborn touched a hand to Rastín’s shoulder and regarded him with eyes that could not see. “I have done what must be done. What your father entrusted me to do.”

  Without a word, Dierá helped Rastín dress. “What of them?”

  “What of them,” Alborn said. “Their fathers knew I would not ask if there was not need, for I have never asked when there was not need. They live or die with you now. Command them to stop breathing and they will die before dishonoring you by taking a breath. Command them to cut out the other’s heart and they will do so though they will all three perish.”

  Rastín threw his hands up in the air even as Dierá was pulling his cloak into place. “Send them back. I have no need for such.”