by Matthew Wolf
“Nor can I,” said his Sunha. Sithel looked up, craning his neck painfully to see the fat man’s dark, angry eyes. “It’s forbidden to kill your Diaon, but an accident isn’t unheard of… The governor will give me a new rat, but it will surely be better than you. Your incompetence and daydreaming has reached its end, my Diaon,” the brutish, filthy man sneered with a dark grin, raising a half-finished blade from the glowing fire. Sithel swallowed in fear, eyeing the rough-hewn edge that gleamed a bloody red in the dark tent. Sithel crawled away, trying to back up, but the man advanced, slowly but surely.
“Please,” he entreated, sniveling and continuing to crawl. His back hit the stone bellow. Fear shot through him. “I swear I’ll do better! Give me a chance! Don’t do this! I don’t want to die!” It was true—that above all things he feared. He opened his mouth to beg more, to plead for his life, but knew it would be of no use. His Sunha would kill him and no one would be the wiser. Everything he’d hoped and dreamed for, gone. Another pile of flesh thrown to the wayside.
“Enough begging,” his Sunha said, “Face your death, you miserable worm.”
“An apt reflection,” said another dark voice, filling the tent. The words chilled Sithel to the core—it was a dark rasp like he’d never heard before. A sudden gloom filled the already shadowy tent. The bellows suddenly snuffed, darkness consuming all.
“What is this?” His Sunha sneered, twisting and turning, trying to find the origin of the voice. “Come out, you coward!” It had become strangely quiet outside the tent, and he realized…
The crowds had stopped moving, as if the world stood still, and time had frozen. What’s happening? Sithel wondered in terrible fear and awe.
His Sunha noticed as well. The man’s thick lips trembled, “What is this? Who are you?!”
“‘What am I would be a better question,” came the dreadful voice.
His Sunha slashed at the air with his red blade, crying out. Suddenly, he was pierced through the stomach by a thick black feeler the size of the man’s fat head. The living darkness wiggled in the air, peering through the man’s chest, as if curious. Sunha gurgled in his blood, then fell to the ground, dead. Sithel felt nothing for it, except fear at the shadows that materialized into a tall, human figure, wearing only the living darkness as clothes.
“Rise,” the dark figure ordered.
And Sithel moved without hesitation. He tried to move his legs, despite his searing pain, but his left leg wouldn’t budge… Fear spiraled through him, eyes widening. “It won’t work!” he shouted fearfully. “I can’t move it!”
“A lesson then,” the dark figure said—the only bright parts of its features were the burning red eyes like bloody coals. “You were too weak to fight for yourself, but beneath me, you will be strong, Sithel. Join me and face an end to your fear and an end to death.”
An end to death? Who was this figure? Terror deeper than his own Sunha’s threats filled him. Who knew what this person could do to him? But a greedy thrill rose inside him as well, greater than he’d ever felt. Hope. But not the typical pathetic hope of the masses. Hope for power and strength. You’ll just be Diaon, once more, Sithel’s mind thought. No, he realized. The dark figure was strong, not a regular Sunha. He would listen, and he would become something more.
He would become everything he ever wanted.
The dark figure reached out its black hand with a claw-like grip. Sithel’s gaze held the merchant’s terrace, unable to look away from those glittering buildings. At last he nodded, taking the figure’s hand.
Sithel returned to the moment.
He realized he was sweating, and he had stopped. The others, Devari and Reavers at his side, waited, curiously. They had never seen him like this, and he tried to quickly hide the painful memories from his face. A Devari grabbed his arm in concern. “Master?”
He harshly threw it aside. “Let go!” he cursed, then he sneered quietly, “I’m fine. Come. Let us see to these Neophytes who do not wish to turn to the side of the righteous, to the side of strength.” For only the strong survive.
* * *
Sithel found the courtyard quickly. Several dozen Neophytes sat on the dewy grass, surrounded by his dark Reavers and Devari. The little boys and girls knelt in their small gray robes, shivering in fear. A nearby fountain spouted a calming babble of water, grating his nerves, and he sent out a tremor of the voidstone’s power—the water cut short in a deafening silence. Well, aside from the whimpers and soft sobs.
He approached with a wicked smile, assuming his mantle once more. He was powerful and he was strong. I will never be used again, will never be weak. A nearby Reaver bowed upon his approach as he moved through the wide, stone archway into the yard that was open to the sky. “Are they broken yet?”
“No, my lord,” the two-stripe said. “Not yet… they are a stubborn bunch.”
Dragging his clumsy leg, Sithel knelt before the smallest of the bunch, a little girl with big blue eyes and curly brown hair. She clenched her eyes, afraid to look upon him. “It’s all right, my child,” he confessed, and slowly, Sithel reached out, grazing his hand across the little girl’s face. “You don’t need to fear me. I’ve come with the message of truth.”
Another spoke, an older boy. “Leave her alone!”
Sithel cocked his head, like a creature examining its prey. The boy had long brown hair, tan skin, and blue eyes, a youthful face that couldn’t have been much more then twelve summers in age, but the young magic wielder’s furious glare didn’t falter. Amused, Sithel rose, spine cracking as he assumed his full height, a position he wasn’t familiar with. The boy swallowed, sitting straighter upon his knees as he approached. “A hero, is it?” He smiled. “This will be more fun than I anticipated.”
The boy in his Neophyte gray robes stared up at him with fiery pride. “The Patriarch will come and save us—he and the other Reavers will find out what you’ve done and they will kill you! You are nothing!”
“It that so?” Sithel questioned.
The long line of Neophytes still trembled. Yet now, with the older boy’s outburst, they looked different, their young minds seeing a glimmer of hope. Nearby, other Reavers watched along the walls. Some were his own, and others were what he’d begun calling examples, men and women who he’d already desiccated, robbing them of the spark. At first he’d just kept them out of pity, but it’d been a stroke of genius to keep them alive, like prized but gelded stallions—the more powerful they once were, the better. They kept the rest in line and dozens already had turned themselves to his cause due to his little act of compassion. Yet even those hollow men and women curiously looked up at the boy’s passionate words.
“You have quite the spark inside you boy,” Sithel said, “Let us see just how much, shall we? This will hurt,” he declared and pressed the voidstone closer. It crackled loudly, pulsing with blue energy, and… nothing happened. Fear and confusion lanced through Sithel’s body as he stared down, eyeing the boy like a monster.
The boy simply smiled. “I’m not afraid of you,” he retorted.
“So it seems,” Sithel replied, trying to hide his fear, lip twitching involuntarily.
“Someone is going to find you and stop you,” the boy jeered. “Someone with real power will put an end to you and show you…”
“Show me what?” Sithel inquired, regaining control. “Hm?”
“Show you… show you that you’re just a weak worm!”
Rage tremored through Sithel’s body. The words bit deeper than any dagger, but he quickly suppressed it. Meanwhile, the voidstone continued to crackle, draining all those nearby, but not this boy. Whatever he was, he was somehow immune. How could it be? The boy was weak! He had the spark, surely, but it was nothing great. Then how could he resist? Because… Sithel thought in sudden realization. He is a monster. Sithel sighed and knelt closer. Embracing the boy close, he sighed, “A shame, really, that fire inside you is… remarkable,” he said, his tone silken.
Confused, the boy writhe
d in his embrace. “Let me go!”
Sithel continued, “Even with such little spark, you would have made an excellent Reaver.” The boy struggled, realizing his fate, even crying out, but it was too late. With practiced ease, he unsheathed his dagger and rammed it into the child’s gut. The boy gasped. A cry went out from all nearby as the boy keeled over, dead. The others now trembled in fear, in weakness. Sithel hated killing children, or those with strength, but it was necessary to keep the rest in line. There was always a variant strain, a voice that rose above the others, but once one squashed that? Well, the rest followed like a leashed animal.
“Why?” cried an older girl, lying over the boy’s lifeless body.
“Don’t you see?” he asked, befuddled, and she looked at him as if he were mad. He laughed, knowing how wrong she was. “Misguided girl, I shall explain to you. To you all,” Sithel said louder, his voice echoing through the courtyard. “The Citadel is ours, but why stop there? To go back to what we were, that would be the true crime. With only the strong left, and those willing to do what is necessary, nothing can stop us! Worthless rules and pitiful hierarchies plague this world. Without them, it is ours for the taking, and we can take what we want, for we are the strongest.” He laughed and it resounded into the sky. “Together, the rest of the Great Kingdoms will tremble beneath us, groveling for the salvation of the Citadel!”
The older girl looked to him over the dead boy’s body, eyes brimming as if seeing something she couldn’t fathom. Something beyond her.
Yes, he thought and continued, his voice softer, silken, “…and once they do, once they are swayed to the side of the mighty and their misguided notions of saving the weak are gone? Well, then we shall simply remake this broken land. For only the strong can banish the suffering and pain of this world,” he declared, his words now shaking with power. His limbs quivered as well, and he thrust the azure voidstone high into the air, letting it crackle in raw dominance, filling the courtyard. “Let me hear your conviction!” At his command, the others began to chant his master’s promise alongside him, voices rising into the chill night air.
“THE AGE OF THE STRONG IS NOW.”
“THE AGE OF THE STRONG IS NOW.”
As the voices thundered in beautiful symphony, Sithel’s grin spread, and in his mind, he saw merchant’s terrace—its glittering buildings rising above Covai’s dusty streets, and he had one single thought. He would have more than he’d ever dreamed. Soon, all the world will be mine…
A New Beginning
MEIRA MOVED THROUGH THE TRANQUIL HOUSE, feeling a fire growing inside her. She snorted and wondered, Do men lack wits, or do they simply choose not to use them? Finn was the cause of her anger this time. The man was incorrigible.
The messenger’s words flashed through her mind again.
“Finn has requested your presence,” said the woman.
“What for?” she asked.
“He said only that he wished to see you before the battle began.”
Battle? She wondered. What is the man talking about? War was brewing, but they were far from deciding on any conclusive plans. To siege the Citadel was no simple thing, even with their growing numbers. It was an impregnable bastion that had not been scathed since its creation, not even in the war of the Lieon. Moreover, Sithel had surely locked down the gates and was preparing for their invasion. One wrong move could spell disaster. On top of that, too many powerful voices had created a sort of division. She sighed. She was partly to blame for that. Ezrah’s voice overrode all others, but the Arbiter seemed to be… waiting for something. It set her teeth on edge.
Again she sighed, moving faster towards Finn’s room.
Men… she cursed. Stubborn as an old oak is to cut, and as strange as—
A few Devari at her side raised their brows. Did I speak aloud again? She shrugged inwardly. It was no surprise. Her concerns only seemed to grow, unable to contain themselves in her head. Granted, the Devari would never quarrel with her, a three-stripe Reaver, no matter the insult. Her group, a swath of men and women, Reavers and Devari moved at her side.
With the influx of newcomers to their rebellion, the groups had begun to divide themselves in three parts beneath Ezrah’s authority. Dagon led a faction, Ethelwin, another four-stripe led another, and Meira, with Finn’s aid, led the third to gather supplies and intelligence, while searching for a way to retake the Citadel.
They reached the door of Finn’s room.
Meira held up her hand. “Stay here.” She entered and closed the door.
Immediately, she sighed at the surroundings—a simple table, chair, dark cot, and a balcony that looked out upon the courtyards where men and women trained. Despite being a leader of this little rebellion of theirs, the man had requested, no he’d insisted, that he have the least luxurious of all the rooms. He’d succeeded. And her eyes panned back to the man in the center of the room, and she felt her pulse flutter upon seeing him.
What… was that? she thought, taking a calming breath.
She shoved the feeling aside, watching him. Finn was working his forms—Devari stances and postures for fighting. He moved deliberately, precisely. He balanced upon one leg, slowly twisting, his sword cutting the cool air. It was a beautiful thing, she admitted, but pointless.
After completing a form, he turned to her with a smile, rising to his full height, with his shirt off and sweat glistening off his body. “Ah, Meira,” he said in greeting, “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“Humble indeed,” she answered.
“I see that look you’re giving me,” he remarked, turning away and sheathing his sword.
“What look?” she asked. “You can’t even see me.”
“I can feel it.”
“So now you truly are becoming a Devari,” she said, hiding a smile.
He sighed and threw his shirt back on, which had lain on the lone chair. She felt a wince of… regret? She sighed. Why was she acting like a Neophyte with a crush? Finn spoke, “There may come a time when our powers cannot be used. The voidstone has proven that. Reavers are not infallible as some of us believe we are.”
She could sense his distaste. Meira knew he was referring to Dagon. The man was exerting his power more and more of late. “I suppose,” she said, waving off the matter—but the man did speak with infuriating wisdom. She didn’t argue that she still thought there were more useful things to be doing than playing with a sword like a little boy. “Why did you summon me here?”
Offering her the chair, Finn lounged back in his cot. She took it, grudgingly. “Why else?” he asked. “Because I missed you, of course.”
She raised a brow. “Yet the messenger said that you wanted to see me before the battle? What battle?”
“What battle, indeed,” he said.
“You mean you just wanted to say you missed me?”
He nodded.
“Then why not simply say that?” she asked.
He shrugged and smiled disarmingly. “Would you have come if I had only said I missed you?”
“Likely not,” she admitted, picking at lint in the dirty green chair.
“See?” he said with a wink.
She sighed.
“Well?”
“Well what?” she asked.
His grin grew. “You haven’t said that you missed me too.”
Despite herself, she laughed and rose, moving to the nearby balcony. “You are incorrigible,” she replied, gripping the railings entwined with dark red and green vines. Below, she watched men and women training, preparing for whatever was coming.
She felt Finn approach. He touched her arm. “What are you worrying about this time?”
“Everything that you should be fearing,” she said softly.
“Precisely,” he answered. “You worry enough for the both of us.”
Again she smiled, shaking her head. She felt heat emanating from his body in the chill night. “Do you know what is coming?” she asked, not willing to look at him.
“I
know what you fear is coming,” he answered.
She narrowed her eyes, fingernails scraping the steel beneath her as a breeze ruffled her hair. “I can hardly believe what we are planning,” she voiced. “Since I was a little girl I dreamed of becoming a Reaver, moving through the grand halls, seeing the courtyards, wearing the red robes, and learning it all while I was sheltered behind its black walls. The Citadel is not just a keep. It is our home. We are planning to siege our very home.”
“It is not our home, Meira,” Finn said with conviction. “Not as it stands. It is Sithel’s lair of darkness. We are planning to rescue it from that fate.”
“Still,” she said. “It’s the Citadel, Finn. A bastion of light in a world of darkness.”
“Farhaven is not so hopeless as you think. The other Great Kingdoms—”
“—Are divided,” she interjected. “I fear a malevolence is rising, my friend. The Citadel has always been that barrier against evil. We Reavers are guardians, feared but respected throughout the land. But how will the world view us now? We were meant to stand against the darkness, but if we can be corrupted, what chance of salvation is there?”
He gripped her shoulders, turning her, his soft brown eyes taking her in. “We will reclaim the Citadel. I swear it.” He smiled again, and it banished some of her fear and concern. “Do you see those two?” he asked, pointing. She followed his finger and saw two men. She recognized the peculiar youths; Gray, her guardian, and Zane, the fake, fiery Devari. “They have been training without rest. They owe the Citadel nothing, us nothing. It is not their home, nor is it filled with their friends and family. But still they train. For us, for something more… They are the light against the darkness that you fear so much. It is a light not reserved for Devari, Reaver or even Arbiter. It is the light of humanity, of perseverance against all odds. It is the light of compassion. So what you fear, Meira, is an end. Yet the truth is this is just the beginning.”
She shivered, trying to swallow and find her words, tension and fears fleeing her body. At last she spoke in a faint voice. “I have missed you, my friend. Somehow, you always know what to say.” Their gaze lingered and she felt her heart begin to beat harder and faster. She took a breath, gathering herself and looking away.
