Rise of the Fallen

by Robert Stanek

  Members of the twelve and twenty clans contested for the right to become the blessed death. Memories of bloody matches still haunted Dierá’s dreams at times, for G’rkyr had not only to contest, but to become a chosen one among the chosen few. The selection distinguished him and gave him back his life for the greater good of the clans. Nük T’nyr himself had come, direct from the Siege of R’hamtil, to congratulate his son. The occasion had been seen by those who served G’rkyr as an honor even greater than the selection as Morkurhedwa Praefect itself.

  Nostik’s touch on her arm pulled Dierá from her thoughts. The scent of him suddenly was honey sweet. Dierá felt uneasy, almost queasy. She forced herself to focus. She turned her head, saw Nostik as if through a thin veil. The bug-eyed luven was luminous, bathed in a sudden penetrating florescence.

  “Be calm,” Nostik said. “I’ve scented you. It will become a part of you now so that other luven forever will see you as I see you. Before your arrival, the Jurin dealt fists. Since your arrival, hands. It matters to me not whether this was because of you or because of your presence. You are a friend, Dierá, and I want all luven to know this. In the face of the cleansing that comes, it is the only gift I can offer for kindness.”

  Dierá found herself at a loss for words. She praised Nostik as best as she could, given her limited ability to focus. Nostik directed the circle back to the palace grounds and docked on the second level balcony nearest to Dierá’s rooms. He led her to a large couch upholstered in golden silk and threaded with what looked like the visages of great birds of prey but was in fact a swarm of luven.

  “Sit,” he told her. “The effects will wear off soon. This bonding protects as well. No other luven can effervesce you now.”

  Dierá lounged quietly for nearly a toll. G’rkyr’s return aroused her. She helped him remove his armor. The helmet alone looked like it should weigh as much as she but was surprisingly light, as were all the pieces of the ceremonial regalia. Jurin craftsmanship with græsteel was as close as she had ever seen to Alvish with lithsteel.

  “It is nearly done,” G’rkyr said as Dierá worked around him.

  Dierá looked up at him while working free his left boot. “It has only just begun.” Her tone made it seem a scolding, but she had meant it to come out otherwise. She had meant it to be a show of strength. A show of her resolve.

  “A hundred Morkurhedwa would break this world if asked. If asked they would strike Cyvair though all the armies of the Hundred Worlds would fall upon them.”

  “I did not question resolve—” Dierá started to say, but she did not want to argue. She decided to pleasure him instead. Today was a day of celebration; she wanted it to be joyous. One way sealed it. When he finished, she helped him dress, choosing a shirt and half pants, both of heavy cloth lined with thick fur.

  A short walk to the greeting hall followed. Their movements at times like these were a careful dance. Five of Dierá’s small steps to one of G’rkyr’s great ones. Her haste to his saunter.

  Zanük entered unannounced a few tocks later. He was clad informally in blue and yellow cloths. The look was a stark contrast to the official uniforms Dierá always had seen him in before. She guessed the clothes marked something she did not understand.

  “Brother,” Zanük and G’rkyr shouted at nearly the same time. The two embraced as only Jurin could, smashing heads, locking arms around backs and lifting first one and then the other off his feet. Dierá, as ever, imagined two mammoth bears coming together, locking paws and jaws. Both were in high spirits. The command transfer had gone smoothly without the usual grumblings and opposition.

  Jdes, the enclave’s Scarabaeid Praefect, entered next. Jdes was the right hand of Kurl’k. He saw with Nük T’nyr’s eyes. Anything he saw or knew, Nük T’nyr saw and knew.

  Dierá quietly moved several steps back and to G’rkyr’s left so she was hidden partially behind G’rkyr and almost out of view. The position was one of highest deference. Alvs were a people conquered by Jurin. The conquered served or were unseen. She had no formal function at this moment, and so she must be unseen. It would not always be so, and she knew this.

  “They honor you,” Jdes said loudly. Dierá did not know what the other was talking about until G’rkyr, Zanük, and Jdes moved to the far end of the hall and Jdes opened the great windows. Dierá knew then that it was a blooding from the sounds of wailing and the pungent smell of burning flesh, ash, and copper.

  Jdes clasped G’rkyr’s shoulder on one side and Zanük’s on the other. “We feast,” he said as he crashed himself and the other two through the windows and rode a bridge of power with them to the platform below.

  Dierá ran from the room, frantic. She rushed first to Nostik’s quarters. Finding his room empty, she hurried to the servant’s wing. She need not have hurried. All the rooms were empty, even those for the youngest luven. She saw their faces; heard their lyrical music. Her heart bled. In one of the windows that faced west by northwest, she saw them then, the great piles of the burning. She had kept this reality as far from her thoughts as possible.

  G’rkyr had told her once that armies marched on their stomachs as much as on their boots. She had known the luven had many purposes. Their moderate intellect and easy mannerisms made them good servants if poor soldiers. Their hive mentality and ability to breed swarms made them good food sources if at times too abundant.

  She walked at a sedated pace back to her rooms, crawled onto the couch of golden threads and cried herself to sleep. She did not dream, but she did awake to something unexpected. It was Takhbarre, who came of his own volition. How long he watched her she did not know, but she did know that in however long it was he could have killed her and had chosen not to. There were no servants to announce or track his comings and goings. Jurin and all others were occupied elsewhere in feasting and festivities.

  Takhbarre said, “Only Empyrjurin feast like that before conflict. It supposes triumph before that triumph is earned.”

  Dierá assumed the barb was for her benefit, but its hearing did not please her. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks as she sat up. She focused herself on Élvemere and the rebirth of her people, became again a queen of queens. “You could have taken your freedom just now.”

  Takhbarre made a soft mournful sound. “Athania Dierá Steorra, you think you are at your best when you take on regal airs yet it is quite the opposite. To be the thing you want to be you must cast back the walls.”

  “I think I’ve opened myself to you quite enough,” Dierá said. “You are not my ally, so don’t pretend to play the part of one.”

  “Likely you’ll never know what part I play,” Takhbarre said half to himself. “I’m not here as outlet to your pain. Rather, to tell you of new whispers. It is time. You must begin.”

  “And I’m to—”

  “In The Abundance, there is discord. To wait until the morning would be too late.”

  “And I should what? Interrupt the festivities of G’rkyr, Zanük, Jdes, and the whole of the Morkurhedwa?”

  He said aloud, “A queen of queens would,” while whispering to her in thought. Isn’t that the thing you most want to be?

  Dierá fled the sitting room, going to her bedchamber and closing the double doors behind her. Her haste was not because she trusted the Prince of Praxix, but rather because she could not be certain he was not telling the truth. Perhaps he had looked into the Path and seen their victory. Just as easily, though, he could have seen their defeat. Either way, a decision was needed.

  She changed out of her finery and into the servant’s garb that was laid out for the morning. The two gold armbands she slipped up her right arm to her bicep told of her service in an important house. The red armband that followed told that she was the head of that household service. The final black armband gave her free passage in the slaveways and limited passage beyond.

  G’rkyr’s garb as personal champion and protector was more tenuous. Few Drakón kept Jurin servants even before the Hundred Worlds War began. F
ewer still did now, primarily only those who served in posts where Jurin assaults were common. Dierá did not fully understand the reasoning behind it, but it was what it was. More important was the fact that Praxix was not one of those posts. Takhbarre had never before kept Jurin.

  In choosing the guises, Dierá had asked the prince many pointed questions. All the answers pointed to the choices she had made. There was no time now for second guesses. Action was needed. She swept up G’rkyr’s things, rushed from the room.

  The halls were empty. She took the grand stairs, raced outside to the review platform.

  She hurried past the dwindling piles of roast luven. She was disgusted, but resolved. Her focus was on what she must do.

  G’rkyr, Zanük, and Jdes were inside one of the hastily erected pavilions feasting and drinking. Empyrjurin did not drink strong spirits before battle; they left that vice to those they conquered. Their drink was watered and mostly of a fiery substance that helped their eum flow. Eum was the wellspring of their power. It gave them fire and strength.

  Dierá bowed and kneeled when she came to stand before G’rkyr. She did not speak, nor did she look at him. Instead, she held out the clothes as if to remind him that it was time. She meant the gesture as one to steal him away quietly. G’rkyr, not one to understand subtlety truly, stood abruptly, upsetting the table and knocking over his chair in the process.

  Eyes that had not seen Dierá’s entrance now did. It was Zanük who came to her aid, sweeping her up and pulling G’rkyr away before Jdes could say anything. Outside beyond the pavilions and fires, Zanük set Dierá down. G’rkyr spoke first. “The luven,” he said, “I know it upsets you. The razing is custom. None now can speak our secrets. I told you of the luven’s purpose. The hive will be reborn. It is the way, and even Nostik will be Nostik once more, though he will not know all things of this life.”

  G’rkyr’s words were as close to apology as his nature allowed. Dierá looked beyond Zanük and G’rkyr and saw plenty who could give away secrets. She started to throw her anger at him, thought better of it. She had not come to argue. “That Praxin says we must go now. That morning will be too late.”

  Both Zanük and G’rkyr knew Dierá referred to Takhbarre. It was understood. She did not say his name because of the perceived power it gave him. Zanük and G’rkyr asked the same question at the same time, “You trust him in this?”

  Dierá could not honestly say that she did, but waiting until morning seemed more wrong than acting now. “I trust only that we must do something now. Either he has seen our destruction or our salvation. Moving now seems to be the right choice. Waiting seems more wrong.”

  “We move,” G’rkyr said without hesitation, raising a fist to show his resolve.

  Zanük showed that he concurred by raising a fist to his brother’s. Within a half toll, the Morkurhedwa were formed up and waiting. They were one hundred strong, dressed in black steel and blue helms. Dierá stood beside Takhbarre. Zanük and G’rkyr said wordless goodbyes, clasping shoulders and thumping fists. Jdes opened a way portal for them, pulling the power from the earth at their feet and wrapping it with precision until the way opened.

  The Morkurhedwa poured into the gate, fought their way out the other side, and then secured the area as needed. G’rkyr, Dierá, and Takhbarre followed. Jdes was last. He rode the final weaving of power out of the gate as the way closed behind them.

  The first transition point was Ferfothin, a Trykathian world. G’rkyr expected little resistance. It seemed to Dierá that was what the Morkurhedwa found. Six transitions remained.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Dierá bled and defended. It seemed the closer they got to the Drakón homeworld, the more resistance they encountered. This was not how it was supposed to have been. The way was supposed to take them through remote places and not into populated zones. She did not understand why they exited the gates in increasingly populated zones.

  To her it seemed that either Jdes was incompetent or they were compromised. G’rkyr assured her otherwise as he defended himself with a two-handed stroke of his græsteel blade. “Five transitions on a direct line for Cevis al’Der, where my father’s armies begin their strike.”

  It was not the plan she had agreed to previously. If true, why was she fighting for her life and bleeding on the purple rocks of Megris Dahwan? Where were the Morkurhedwa? Where was Takhbarre?

  Jdes arched lightning directly at her. She dodged it but her attacker did not. The blue-white bolt caught the sæjurin full in the chest. He collapsed in agony at her feet.

  With one long sweep of his blade, G’rkyr gutted his foes, a trio of Gnog pikers clad in a peculiar honey and rose colored armor. G’rkyr, Dierá, and Jdes regrouped and ensured there were no more foes. “My father’s armies strike while we move on. Two transitions on a tangent to Cyvair.”

  “That was not the plan,” Dierá countered.

  “It is as much of any plan as any Alv should know,” Jdes said.

  His voice reminded Dierá of her place. She took three steps back and to the right, putting G’rkyr between herself and Jdes. In G’rkyr’s shadow she healed herself, thankful the blood had not soiled her clothes.

  She squatted down, took in deep breaths. It had been a long time since she defended with a weapon other than words. She had almost forgotten the feel of steel in her hands and the taste of blood on her lips. The early days after Karthold had been all steel and blood. She had earned G’rkyr’s esteem with the same.

  In the daypack at her side, Dierá found a clean cloth. She wet it using her waterbag; used it to clean herself. She washed G’rkyr next, removing the muck, blood, and guts from his arms, face, and neck while he cleansed his blade using a whetstone and fire. Jdes mocked her when she turned to him next. His scorn-filled laughter was abridged as much by G’rkyr’s cutting stare as by her healing touch to a deep cut in his arm.

  Dierá did not expect gratitude. Her act was not one of kindness or of need. It was one of pretense. Normally an Empyrjurin would have sealed such a wound with fire and taken the scar as a tribute to a contest won. Her purpose was to be seen. If plans had changed, she wanted Jdes to know her uses. She had proven herself apt in combat, purposefully taking on sæjurin over Gnogs; now she proved herself apt in wolskill. Jurin knew little of the healing crafts so she hoped the statement she made was clear.

  Finished, she returned to her place in G’rkyr’s shadow. She felt Takhbarre’s absence as keenly as she felt the absence of the Morkurhedwa. Silently she battled her misgivings. She had misjudged G’rkyr; never credited his intellect or his ability to deceive. Were other betrayals ahead? Or had he simply put his people’s needs first as she would soon?

  —

  Martin stood beside Gerhold in stunned silence. Makhatar gave him Gerhold’s leash as if the other was a prize. Martin took the leash; he had no other choice. Any act that he did not perform of his own volition, Makhatar compelled him to do.

  Constant struggle against the compelling was draining. Martin lost track of time. It had been some days since the sorting, but he knew not the exact count. The first execution had been the hardest. He had not expected it to occur in the colosseum but it had. Makhatar passed judgment and he as her executioner delivered it. It was a new twist to the games and the gathered throng reveled in it.

  Each day brought something new. He was beginning to understand the microcosm of Makhatar’s entourage. They were of many peoples, including titan and Drakón, but not Jurin or Gnog. At first glance they seemed to be free to come and go as they chose. In truth, not a one was truly free, and they might as well have worn the same leashed collars that he and Gerhold wore.

  The pecking order was defined mostly by rank and race. Drakón and titans were at the top, followed by S’h’dith. For the most part, these seemed to be royals of some sort or another, even among S’h’dith. Martin had not known that the snake people served any purpose other than as warriors and magi. He wondered if S’h’dith were newly elevated as Jurin once ha
d been.

  A Wërg, a Fedwëorg, and a Fhurtroll at the next rung were oddities, but also particularly valued prizes. The fourth rung, and the one he aspired to, included Alvs and Dwëorgs. He was the only Kingdomer, and the others lamented this greatly. His frailty was their doom. He would die a ghastly death if any of them forgot themselves for a moment, and then they would never hear the end of it. He guessed then that what Makhatar had said about him dying only when she wished it was more likely to be whenever she became bored with him, or allowed his death because of benign neglect.

  The Drakón and titans had their own pets. These mostly were Trykathians, as they were considered heartier than Kingdomers and Goeks. There was some sort of odd power struggle between Gerhold and these Trykathians. Martin did not understand it, and was too busy trying to figure out the new rules to pay particular attention. Understanding the dynamics of the group and their rules was the key to carving out his place within it.

  Moving the gaggle that was the entourage was a logistical nightmare. Makhatar did not care how the feat was accomplished, but when she looked for the entourage it must be present and formed exactly as she expected it to be. If she had a certain type of witty or sarcastic comment, her closest titan was expected to be at hand. His expected response was a haughty cackle and a compliment to her wit. If she was being petty and vile, her Drakón had best be close. They were expected to echo her acrimony. For other moments, her favored pets—the Wërg, Fedwëorg, and Fhurtroll— must jostle for her eye. It was all a grand theater; its purpose seemed to be to keep Makhatar and her inner circle from boredom.

  Makhatar did not take Martin everywhere with her. At times, he and Gerhold spent many long tolls in the dark rooms where lesser members of the entourage slept at night. The rooms were several floors removed from Makhatar’s own rooms. At these times Martin hoped Makhatar had become bored with him and forgotten about him, yet this thought also caused him great distress.

  He and Gerhold had no way to leave the dark rooms. If Makhatar should go off world or beyond the city and forget about those in her rooms, they would all starve and die. Only at Makhatar’s request did the doors open. Only in Makhatar’s presence was there food, drink, and light. It was as if they existed only when she said they existed.