Amorlia

by Chris Wichtendahl

  The Road to Porthenge

  “Then I woke up in the monastery,” Artemis finished the story she’d been telling Pym, who walked at a pace that clearly pained him in its slowness. “And you’ve been there for the rest,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Pym said quietly, “and Kael. You’ve really been through a lot.” Artemis looked straight ahead as she walked. “I suppose I have,” she said, “though I expect not as much as some.” “Well,” Pym said casually, “you know you can count on me. If you ever need anything, you let me know. Because we’re friends now, and friends look out for one another.” Artemis smiled at him, “Thank you, Pym. That was very sweet. But you still have another hour to wait.” “Aww, come on!” Pym begged. “A whole hour?!” “Should I make it two?” Pym tried on his best pout. It was rather impressive, as pouts go, though Artemis was unmoved. “Do you remember when I asked if you were going to drive me mad?” “Yes,” Pym said, kicking at the ground. “And do you remember your answer?” “Mm.” Pym continued his experiment in being sullen. “You said you wouldn’t drive me mad on purpose, right?” “I guess.” Artemis nodded. “Okay. So, would you care to tell me, if you are not purposefully trying to drive me mad, why you spent the better part of five minutes seeing how many times you could smack the back of my head before I turned off your speed again?” “I was bored!” Pym whined. “I can go from the monastery to Porthenge and back in minutes! If it were just me, I’d have been to Terminus three times by now!” He looked up at her, pleading. “How can you people stand to move so slow?!” Artemis fought the urge to roll her eyes. “We manage,” she said dryly. Changing the subject, she asked him, “So, how did you come to be in the monastery?” Pym shrugged. “I really don’t know. I don’t know much about my life up until a year ago.” He paused, considering this. “Well, no. That’s not entirely true. I kind of remember my parents, and I think I used to live in Drego. I also know I’ve had my speed my whole life, and I’m pretty sure I was doing something with it. I have a memory of my mother telling me how proud she was.” He shook his head. “But it’s all very vague. If I try too hard to remember any one thing, my mind goes blank on the subject.” “That sounds like tampering to me,” Artemis offered, “If you like, once we’re on the train, I can look around inside your mind and see if someone else has been in there.” “Thanks,” Pym smiled, “I’d appreciate that. The monks tried to help, but it mostly involved them just standing around praying. It was nice of them, but, you know, not terribly effective.” “Prayer is funny that way,” Artemis said. “I guess so,” Pym looked up at her, “So, you’re Lunite, yes?” Artemis laughed a little. “You’d think so, right?” She touched her birthmark, “The thing about the Lunite faith is that it’s very secretive. Essentially, to really practice it, you have to move into the Great Wood and devote your life to the moon goddess. The only time the priestesses ever show their faces is during the spring fires and the harvest revels. So,” she said, “I guess the answer is no. I’m not a Lunite. I did spend time among the Hunt for a while, and participated in their ceremonies. And, obviously,” she gave him a sly smile, “I’ve had my time at the spring fires.” Pym rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, “Right. Right. So, uh, that means you’re Solarian, then?” She thought about that for a moment before saying, “No. No, I don’t think I’m that, either. Kael is, and he’s very devout, but Solarian religion is too... structured for me. I guess you could say I believe in Solar and Luna, but do not actively worship either one. What about you?” Pym made a dismissive gesture. “I think all religion is stupid. I think the gods are just convenient tools that allow some people to tell other people what to do. Don’t get me wrong,” he clarified, “I think Brother Sime and the folks at the monastery are great. They really helped me out when they had no real reason to. But basing your whole life on the entries in some old dead man’s diary?” He shrugged, “That’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think?” Artemis grinned and punched her new friend playfully on the shoulder, “I like you, kid.” Pym grinned back, “You aren’t so bad either, Your Majesty.” They walked a few more feet silently, each lost in their own thoughts. “So can I have my-” “No.” Suddenly, the two found themselves surrounded. Half-naked men and women covered in painted symbols broke from the cover of the jungle. The sharp points of dozens of spears and arrows were aimed at the companions. Pym looked from Artemis to the strangers and back again. “How about now?”

  Guidance and Revelation

  Pym stood close to Artemis, looking at the strange people with great concern. “Um, Artemis,” he said, “now might be an excellent time to turn my speed back on.” No, I don’t think so, Artemis thought to him. “Why not?” Because keeping you slow stops you from doing something stupid, Artemis explained. And just think what you want to say. I can hear your thoughts. Oh? Pym challenged, Well how come you couldn’t hear theirs? Good question, Artemis replied, I’ll be sure and ask them. If they don’t shoot us through the eyeballs first. Don’t be so dramatic. If that’s what they were after, they’d have done it from the trees, and we wouldn’t have been any wiser. “You are correct, Artemis Vega,” one of the painted men said, “we have no wish to kill you.” He smiled and gestured at the others, “All appearances to the contrary.” As though by some silent cue, the rest of the men and women lowered their weapons. They remained wary of Artemis and Pym, however, and only the man who’d spoken seemed at ease. He approached them, his arms open. “Please,” he said, “we mean no harm. In fact, we may be able to help you in your quest.” “How do you know we’re on a quest, or what we may need?” Artemis asked. The man chuckled, “The same way I knew your name, what you were thinking and the fact that you are not our enemies.” He tapped the side of his head, “Telepathy. It’s also what helped me shield us from yours.” Pym nudged Artemis and muttered, “Hm. Telepathically circumventing your powers. I’ll bet that’s annoying.” “Funny,” she whispered back. To the man facing them, she said, “Well sir, you know my name, my thoughts and our intentions. Perhaps you would care to share yours?” She could not read his mind, nor any of the others’. It was disconcerting, to say the least. “I am called Skot,” he said, his fist pressed against his chest, “Chieftain of the Hunt of the western jungle. The others you may meet in time,” he indicated his followers, “but for now please trust that our motives are pure. At the very least,” he said, “we are no friends to the Nazeans.” “The Hunt?” Artemis asked, confused, “But the Hunt never ventures outside of the Great Wood. How did you come to be here?” “That,” Skot said, “is something of a tale, and one better told in safety and comfort. Come,” he beckoned to them, “our village is close.” Artemis looked at Pym, who shrugged. “It’s like you said,” he told her, “if they’d wanted to kill us, they’d have done it. I say we go with them.” Artemis was inclined to agree. She followed the painted folk into the jungle, Pym close behind her. Later, they discovered that the village in question was actually a series of caves in the side of the massive sheer cliffs known as the Westwall. The caves may have begun as natural formations, but over the years had been expanded and augmented until an entire city was carved out of the rock. There were one or two temporary out- buildings, but it was clear that almost everything was inside the caves. Skot led them through an opening, down a long tunnel, into a wide common plaza, then into a smaller interior cave that served as his living quarters. His quarters were lush by any standards, with fine rugs, beautiful hand-carved furniture and numerous sculptures and paintings. “I am afraid I can only offer you water and fruit juice to drink,” he apologized. “We had the first of our spring revels last night, and we finished the last of our wine. There might be beer, though I’d have to check with-” “Water will be fine, thank you,” Artemis said politely. Pym asked for fruit juice. Skot served them their drinks, then brought out a platter of fresh fruit and bread for them to share. Artemis was surprised to find the fruit and water were actually chilled. She’d have loved to know how they managed it, but she had more pres
sing questions. “Who we really are, and how we came to be here,” Skot said. “Yes,” Artemis said, “And also how you manage to read my mind. My mental defenses are quite formidable.” “They are,” Skot agreed, “I just happen to be better at it than you. Don’t get upset,” he said, hand raised, “There’s always going to be someone better than you at something. Fortunately it’s me, and not Julien Castille.” “I suppose,” Artemis muttered. While they ate, Skot told Artemis and Pym of his particular Hunt tribe, and what they were doing so far from the Great Wood. They had split off from the Hunt of the Wood centuries earlier, following the arrival of the Solarian people from lands far to the south. While most of the Lunite natives of the four Lands embraced the newcomers, the Hunt resisted. They refused to have anything to do with the Solarians or their culture, and retreated to the sanctuary of the Great Wood. They established strict rules regarding interaction with the outside, and forbade any and all use of the new technologies that were beginning to develop. One faction within the Hunt took issue with this. “Well,” Skot said, “keeping separate was one thing, but my ancestors didn’t see any reason to deny themselves the fruits of progress. So, they left the Great Wood and traveled west, to the Westwall territory.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the whole room, “And here we are.” Artemis looked around, “Nice.” “Thank you,” Skot smiled, “we’ve had a few centuries to work on the place. Of course,” he explained, “while we have our differences of opinion, we do like to keep in contact with the Hunt,” he looked intently at Artemis. She looked back at him, raising an eyebrow, “What?” “Do you know what happened to Kael T’Ken the night Castille attacked?” The question hit Artemis like a physical blow. She put down the piece of fruit she’d been holding, her appetite replaced by nausea. Everything she’d managed to keep locked away since waking up in the monastery threatened to overwhelm her. She forced her words through clenched teeth, “Kael T’Ken is dead.” He had to be. That monk had said something about Kael sleeping without waking just before Julien Castille launched his attack. If the Nazeans had found him in that state, it was unlikely they would have helped him. A soothing presence entered her mind, and she felt Pym holding her hand. Kael T’Ken is not dead, Skot thought to her, He still sleeps, but his body lives. He was taken by Solarian monks to their monastery, and there he waits. For what? Artemis tried to temper her joy. She wanted to believe this, needed to believe it so badly, but she refused to raise her hopes so high they would shatter when they fell. “For you,” Skot told her. “He waits for you to return what was stolen from him, to wake him at last from his eternal slumber.” Artemis shook her head, “But... I... how can I...” “That is not for me to know. The Sisters will tell you how,” Skot said. “They will show you the way to save your love, and so doing, save Amorlia.” Artemis jumped to her feet, dragging Pym up with her. “We have to leave. Now,” she said. “We have to get to Porthenge and get on that train. Kael,” tears began to flow now, “Kael...” Skot gripped her shoulder. “Artemis,” he spoke gently, “calm yourself. You can not simply walk into Porthenge and board a train as you are. Everyone in Vega knows you. The only advantage you have right now is that the Nazeans think you are dead. All it will take is one talkative shopkeeper to open his mouth to the wrong person, and they will hunt you mercilessly no matter where you go.” He led them out into the plaza where another man and two women were waiting. They held a cloak, various bowls and a leather pouch. “The pouch is full of gold,” Skot said. “You will be unable to travel via your usual method, as the royal car would be a bit conspicuous, and I highly doubt you thought to bring money with you when you left the palace. The bowls contain pigments, which these women will try to blend in a way as to hide your mark,” he pointed at her face, “The cloak is just additional disguise. Plus, it gets cold in Porthenge this time of year, and I don’t want you catching a chill.” He grinned at her, and she returned the smile before spontaneously hugging him. “Thank you,” she said, holding him close. “When I started on this journey, it was simply because I was sent, and I had nowhere else to go. Now, I have a reason, a purpose for the first time since the attack. Thank you.” Skot returned the hug. “You are most welcome. Your father was a great man, Artemis,” he whispered to her, “We of the Westwall owe him a great debt. We repay some of it now to you.” She nodded as they separated, trying to regain her composure. The women came to her and led her off to another cave. After several minutes, she emerged wearing the cloak. Her birthmark seemed to have vanished, and it would take very close inspection to see that it had been hidden. “Well?” she asked Pym. “You look weird,” he said, “without the...” he waved his hand in front of his eyes. “Thank you, Pym,” she sighed. “That was helpful. Where is Skot?” “He had to leave. They’re increasing their patrols along the known paths, as Nazeans have been spotted to the south on this side of the Westwall.” Pym tugged at her cloak, pulling her toward the cave mouth, “He gave me one of their maps, with all of the secret trails and paths known only to them. Not only will we avoid detection, but we should make it to Porthenge a full day early.” “Excellent,” she said, exiting the cave, “let’s get going.” Artemis bid farewell to the women who’d provided her disguise, then she and Pym entered the jungle again. There was less road now to travel than there had been, and more to be found at the end than they’d thought. Despite all that had happened, and all that lay ahead, Artemis allowed herself to hope. In fact, she was feeling so good, she gave Pym his speed back for the rest of the day.

  Meanwhile...

  Dark grey clouds hung low in the sky over the Land Vega. A damp chill permeated the air of the city. Those who ventured out in the streets were forced to bundle themselves, despite the fact that spring was well underway. Not many ventured out into the streets if they could help it. Indoors was the only place one could escape the constant subliminal broadcasts of the Brain Masters. Their mantras of obedience and conformity seeped into the subconscious in the same way the dampness seeped into the skin. Lia Mirrel walked slowly through the street, keeping her eyes on the ground. To look up was akin to defiance, and the people of Vega had learned the price of defiance. Those who forgot it had only to visit the plaza, where charred reminders hung from the gibbets like rotted fruit. As she walked, the message of the Brain Masters echoed in her mind. A Good Citizen does as they’re told. A Good Citizen knows their place. A Good Citizen toils for the glory of the State. Everywhere, on every wall, hung the posters: A line of identical men, fists over their hearts asked the question, “Are You a Good Citizen?” A portrait of Julien Castille proclaimed, “The Archbishop is Watching”. Interspersed among the posters were copies of the recently proclaimed Rules of the New Order. Lia stopped to read them, though she knew them by heart. 1. No citizen shall work counter to the will and agenda of the State. Any citizens found to be in conflict with the will and agenda of the State shall be put to death. 2. No citizen shall, through action or speech, encourage others to work counter to the will and agenda of the State. Those citizens found guilty of treasonous speech or seditious action shall be put to death. 3. The practice and/or teaching of heretical dogma is forbidden. The only god is Nazeas, and the Archbishop is His Living Voice. Any citizens found practicing and/or teaching heretical dogma shall be sentenced to no less than ten years hard labor. 4. Sexual deviance is forbidden. The lighting of the spring fires is hereby prohibited, as is all sexual congress outside the bonds of marriage. All marriages not sanctioned by the Nazean church are henceforth declared null and void. Any citizens found in violation of this law shall be taken into custody until their marriages can be sanctioned. 5. It is forbidden for men to lie down with men or women with other women. Any citizens found to be in violation of this law shall be sentenced to no less than five years imprisonment, pending successful re-education. 6. All citizens possessed of superhuman powers will report to their local indoctrination center for processing. All parents shall bring their children to be tested for such powers and, if necessary, to the indoctrination center for proc
essing at which time they shall become wards of the State. Any citizens found harboring superhumans will be put to death. There were more, but Lia stopped reading and continued on. She did not want to be late, and she still needed to steel her mind against the Brain Masters who were stationed on every corner monitoring the citizenry for seditious thoughts. Suddenly, her feet stopped moving. No matter how hard she tried, she could not get them going again. She tried to remain calm, but she knew what this meant. Citizen, the thought slithered into her mind, won’t you please come with us? Against her will, Lia turned and marched in lockstep with the sinister Brain Masters, their long black coats almost sweeping the ground, the cold gleam of their eyes boring into her from their impassive faces. When she arrived at the plaza, she saw the other members of her resistance cell, plus a few others she didn’t know. Still under the Brain Masters’ control, she turned and faced the line of soldiers, her back against the wall. From his vantage high above the city, Julien Castille watched the execution with no small amount of irritation. They shouldn’t need the executions any more. These people should have been completely pacified by now. His irritation increased at the sound of his bodyguard clearing his throat. “What?!” Castille growled, turning from the window. Fedrich Ma’Caer lounged in Anders Vega’s old throne, flipping through a pamphlet on the Nazean religion. “I notice,” he said casually, “that I am not mentioned in here.” “So?” Castille crossed the room and began studying the reports and maps laid out on a table. Despite the continued attempts at resistance, the Land Vega was rapidly coming under his complete control. They held the city, and much of the outlying farmlands. The damned Wood remained impenetrable, but he had people working on that. He tapped his finger idly on the part of the map encompassing Drego. That Land was proving more difficult to subdue. The terrain was working against them more than anything else. Drego’s Monarch had fled to a secondary palace in the remote highlands, along with many of Drego’s citizens. The soldiers of Drego held all the passes up into the Plateau, and Castille’s men were as yet unsuccessful at breaking their lines. The Nazeans held a firm grip on the lowlands, however, and he was confident they could wait out Zen Drego and his Gunfighters, particularly now that Vega was no longer a viable ally. “It’s just that I’m supposed to be the Storm God,” Fedrich said from his seat on the throne. Castille had forgotten the young superhuman was still there and grit his teeth at the distraction. “Yes, well,” he forced a smile, “I think it’s best not to dilute the focus of the common folk, don’t you? I’d hate for their loyalties to become confused.” Fedrich laughed, “Feeling threatened, Castille?” Not by you, Castille thought daggers at Fedrich’s mind and the younger man flinched. He considered mind-blasting the little bastard, but went back to his maps instead. “Leave me,” he said, “I have work to do and your prattle distracts me.” Fedrich slouched out of the room. Castille watched him go out of the corner of his eyes and smiled. Yes, he was master here. Here, and elsewhere. Soon, he would be master of this entire world. And there would be no one to stand in his way. ****** Carola Delas sat at a table in her quarters at the Solarian monastery, studying old maps and every bit of information they’d gathered on Julien Castille during the last war. It wasn’t much, but she needed every scrap she could find. She looked up as Father Jorrin entered. “How is he?” she asked. “The same,” he said sadly, “Though we have, through prayer and chants, managed to keep his body from dying due to lack of nourishment, we can find no way to revive him. The wisest and most devout of our order have attempted to speak directly to his soul and found only darkness.” He shook his head, leaning wearily against the wall, “Whatever ails him is far beyond our skills to mend.” Carola nodded, “Do not despair, Father,” she said gently, “As you have said many times in your sermons, ‘where there is life, there is hope’. Do not surrender yours.” Father Jorrin smiled. “Well now I know we are in dire straits indeed. To discover that Carola Delas actually pays attention to my sermons...” “Oh, I don’t,” Carola teased, “Anders used to quote them to me all the time. Some of it must have stuck.” An uneasy silence fell on them then, and Father Jorrin began to weep softly. Carola stood and crossed the room to him, wrapping her arms around him. “Shhh,” she said, “none of that now.” “But Anders,” the monk sobbed, “and poor Artemis,” he drew a shuddering breath, “Another Sacred Line, lost forever...” “Now, now,” Carola pushed him back, forcing him to look at her, “we are still here. We are free, we are strong, and we are determined. All is not yet lost.” Father Jorrin nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, “You are right, of course,” he cleared his throat and composed himself, “Forgive me, Admiral.” “Don’t be silly, Father. You are human, as the rest of us are,” she studied him with some concern, “When did you last sleep?” “I do not even remember.” “Perhaps you should go and do so now,” Carola advised, “Burdens are more easily carried when one is rested.” “Yes,” he agreed, “that might be best. I will return when I awake.” “I’ll be here.” Father Jorrin opened the door, but turned to her again at the threshold. “Thank you, Admiral.” She smiled at him, “Any time, Father.” Once he had left, Carola went to the window, looking out over the mountainous region that sheltered the monastery. Her face turned hard and grim, every hard-earned line etched in stark relief on her skin. “Soon, Archbishop,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “You will see me again very soon.” “And it will be for the last time.”