The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  “Yes, they are dangerous. The Umordoc send them after us.”

  E’Malkai laughed as he tried to imagine Elcites commanding an army of demi to hunt the Fallen. His mirth drew strange looks. “I was just remembering how much is misunderstood between our two worlds.”

  S’rean looked angry now.

  “What has he said? There is much that I am missing.”

  “The weapon is his father’s planedge. It bears the marking of the Armen bloodline. He knows of the demi from his mother’s stories. He laughs because there is much difference from where he was and where he is now.”

  “Why did he come here?” queried S’rean, his calm returned.

  “Why did you come here?” Arile asked E’Malkai.

  “I have come to find the Fallen. I can speak their language, a little. But I have been sent by those in the south to find my ancestors and the texts of the Believer.”

  Arile switched tongues from Utiakth to Fallen.

  “He can speak Fallen,” he uttered to S’rean.

  Most of the tribes could discern the languages of those in close proximity. The Fallen was the largest of the seven known tribes. Therefore, it was the most commonly spoken along the northern trade routes, or what remained of them.

  “Good, this will make things simpler,” spoke S’rean, his inflection much lighter when using the Fallen tongue. “You seek the Fallen?”

  “Yes,” replied E’Malkai as he struggled to remember the language. “I have come for the Believer.”

  Arile and S’rean exchanged looks. It was Arile who spoke. “Those are powerful words. Your path is written on the winds.”

  S’rean scowled. “Much has changed on the tundra. The cold has been greater, the game less plentiful, and the other tribes have become angry with one another.”

  “There is much that is wrong––a lack of balance because of Fe’rein,” replied E’Malkai as he propped himself onto his elbows. Catching himself, he realized that they would not know that name. It was too late, for he was met with a pair of horrified gazes.

  “Gagnion’Fe’rein,” whispered Arile.

  “The Dark Creator,” added S’rean with equal awe.

  “You know him?”

  Surprise was divided three ways.

  Arile’s words were a whisper. “The Gagnion’Fe’rein is the dark spirit of the earth, the one that will bring about the end of days.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken. My uncle is bad news alright,” replied E’Malkai as he pushed himself off the rock table. Placing his feet on the ground, he stretched his muscles, feeling the heat of his blood flow through them.

  There was disgust in S’rean’s voice.

  “The Gagnion’Fe’rein is your uncle?”

  “He was born Ryan Armen, brother to my father, Seth Armen, son of Evan,” replied E’Malkai, watching their looks turn from distrust to horror. “He took the power from my father, allowing the darkness to use him as their pawn.”

  “You are what is written in the texts of Re’klu’hereun. The blood sons of Armen will do battle and restore Terra to its balance once more. It will come to pass. Your coming is a sign of it,” spoke Arile.

  “You are the All-god of the Ancients. You are the original Creator,” continued S’rean, though he concealed his zeal with surprise.

  “Bah,” snapped E’Malkai with a flick of his hand. “I have had enough of that kind of talk. It has worn thin upon me. I am no messiah. I am not a liberator of the Light. I am just lost, trying to find a past to which I don’t belong.”

  They both just looked at him, their unrelenting gaze strange.

  “Where is my pack? The one I wore when you brought me in?”

  “Do you wish to leave so soon?” queried Arile, his hands folded over one another.

  The novelty of the place had diminished; E’Malkai had become annoyed with the pace of their inquiry. “I have a nation that depends on me finding the Fallen, which will lead me to some mystical Shaman in some damned desert.”

  “With each word that you speak, the more concretely we believe. The words that you speak have not been spoken except in ancient writings. You are an ending and a beginning,” spoke S’rean with a shake of his head.

  “How soon can I be on my way?” pressed E’Malkai.

  “We would appreciate it if you would at least rest for a day or two. Your body needs sleep, and food. These things we can provide, as well as a guide for as far as we can take you with our knowledge,” replied S’rean as he approached E’Malkai. For the first time in the youth’s life, he felt short around another human.

  S’rean was almost a head taller than him.

  The youth’s stomach growled on cue. “I have to admit I am hungry. I realize that I have not been a very gracious guest, but I am burdened by many things.”

  The language of the Fallen was a strange one. They spoke with an archaic verb structure that made you sound droll. Considering E’Malkai’s limited skill with the language, it made explanations difficult.

  “There is no need to apologize. What is your name?”

  “E’Malkai, son of Seth.”

  He added the latter part as was the custom.

  “I am called Elder S’rean. I am the village chief of the Utiakth. The white hunter who found you is Arile, sole survivor of the Re’klu’hereun. He shall be your guide when you depart. He is the best in all of the Utiakth, even though he is white and a foreigner.”

  E’Malkai looked at the man and wondered why he was the only one who wore the wraps, unless it was strictly a Fallen practice. He let the question pass and allowed himself to be led deeper into the caves, where the aroma of food soon filled his nostrils.

  And he no longer needed to be led.

  ⱷ

  Illigard

  The trip to Illigard was a cold one. The transport’s heating unit had frozen and busted only days before their actual journey, around the time when T’elen had first stumbled into Dean’s residence. The wasteland seemed calmer under a blanket of snow, the swamps covered. Steam rose as the inner depths of heat struggled to the surface. Dean sat at the rear of the vehicle, while T’elen and Leane sat across from each other, shivering beneath the layers of blankets.

  “Coldest winter I have seen in a century. Terra is angry with us,” commented T’elen. Her eyes focused forward, out the side viewports of the transport, watching the ground flash past them as they sped toward Illigard.

  “I have not been this cold since I was in the Fallen. Although this is still tame compared to that, but without exposure I have grown weak,” acknowledged Leane with a stern nod, the cold sapping her of her wit.

  “To be honest, it has been over a decade since it has snowed this heavily in Duirin or anywhere else west of the Citadel. I was under the impression that it could not snow beneath Culouth,” interjected Dean as he craned his neck to watch the passing land.

  “Blowing winds might….” trailed off T’elen, stopping because Illigard had come into view.

  The transporter rolled to a stop.

  The abrasive sound of the outer gate of Illigard creaking open to welcome them was chilling, haunting; all aboard winced at it long after they had passed through it.

  The outer door of the transport opened, and frozen air rushed in stinging their faces with its icy needles. They moved forward, shielding their face as they descended the exit ramp. The imposing frame of Elcites stood in their path. His white-streaked fur made him appear as if he had been upgraded for winter.

  “Guardian Elcites, it is a surprise to see you here,” called T’elen over the whipping winds. Leane and Dean filed out behind her, but passed on the conversation.

  A mother’s questions could wait.

  “I decided to go where I would be of most use, here in Illigard. There have been some new arrivals since you were here; bands from the south have heard rumors of the return of the Believer. There is much confusion,” he replied, though his attention was focused on the fading figure of Leane.

 
T’elen followed his gaze. She wondered about the fate of E’Malkai as well. “Let us speak inside. We have much to talk about.”

  *

  The bar seemed swollen with soldiers; their haggard faces showing anxiety about the war that was going to come to their doorstep. T’elen and the others sat at a far booth, as far from their riotous behavior as possible.

  The first question was Leane’s.

  “Did he make it to the northern marker?”

  The guardian did not hesitate to answer. “He did.”

  “And?” pressed T’elen.

  “And there is nothing else. I could not follow him, so I do not know how he fared from that point on––as we agreed. I directed him to the Hall of Spines, the place where the tribe of Utiakth supposedly makes their home,” replied the guardian.

  “Will the Utiakth take him to the Fallen?” queried Dean.

  “They will realize who he is and might have already. They will do as he says. He is a leader of something that none of us can comprehend. I will miss him when he is gone.” T’elen showed a sorrow unbecoming of the warlord.

  “Are you taken with my E’Malkai?” chided Leane. She saw the woman blush, but not before draining a tall glass of an emerald color.

  “Never mind that nonsense. We have more pressing matters,” she replied and turned to Elcites. With her face turned, they could not see the embarrassment on her face. “You spoke of men coming in?”

  “Not just men, T’elen, but bands of Umordoc from Culouth. They have heard the rumors of the rebirth of the Believer. The entire nation hears whispers in dark corners of the return of the true herald of tomorrow, and they have begun to fear. Those who wish to have a place if the Intelligence is beaten have flocked to the gates. Some are camped just outside Illigard; many among them walked across the wasteland in this weather to see him.”

  “How many?” Always the military leader.

  “The men are more than four thousand strong; the Umordoc could be as many as a thousand,” answered the gargantuan with a shrug.

  “Quite a swell for our war,” mused Leane, her mind distracted.

  “Not just our war, the war for Terra. We, those of Culouth, have taken far too much. An end is near,” conceded T’elen, the humor of the previous moment lost.

  “Can we really stand up to the onslaught of soldiers at Kyien’s command? Wasteland or not, sheer numbers alone are not in our favor,” commented Dean as he sat back, tipping the stout glass in his hand.

  “What about the rumors of the Believer? You said that whispers had begun,” continued T’elen, her mind focused now on the matters at hand.

  “After I reached Linar, I headed southwest away from Duirin and came upon a village of traders, ones who had come south for the winter and found a rather unsettling season here as well. Either way, the tribes howled and danced about the return of the original Creator, something they called the Ai’mun’hereun. It means the one that brings back the Light in the old tongue. They said that the winds were alive with the voices of the old ones,” answered Elcites.

  “There is much of that in the north. The Fallen were the tamest in terms of religious zeal. The older tribes that were more zealot than warrior were run into the ground. But, the books and ancient texts were retained within the confines of the Fallen. That is if the caverns still stand,” interjected Leane.

  “The traders were adamant. There had never been so much activity in the north, such violence among the tribes. They were convinced that something was wrong. The southern bands have begun to speak of him as well, though the old tongue is lost on them. They speak of the Believer and the Shaman, not the Ai’mun’hereun and Ti’ere’yuernen.”

  “We have to begin fortifying Illigard,” snapped T’elen.

  Standing and pushing aside her chair, she stalked out. She barked orders as she left, much to the dismay of the soldiers she passed. Elcites watched the general go. It was as if she had not been hurt in the first place. He moved to go after her, but Leane’s small hand stopped him.

  “Illigard cannot stand against Culouth without E’Malkai.”

  “I know.” The giant nodded.

  “Can he survive the tundra?” she asked quietly.

  “He must.”

  Leane nodded.

  The words were not the resounding affirmative that she wanted, but Elcites was already outside. Falling in line with the barking out of orders, he stood alongside T’elen.

  “Without E’Malkai, the war with Culouth means nothing.”

  “All we can do is hope,” replied Dean with a mournful nod.

  Leane looked out through the open door. The blowing snow was a testament to the cold days ahead of them. She sighed. “Is that going to be enough?”

  ⱷ

  Fe’rein

  Fe’rein flew over the tundra, his crimson and shadow energy trailing behind him. He felt a tug on his heart, in the depths of what remained of his soul, upon seeing the lands of his past, of his forefathers. Sadness dwelled there that he could not reconcile. He watched the dips and twists of the caverns below him; remembering ancient names for what he saw. The images of the past were too great, too fresh.

  The Umordoc camp looked more like a boneyard than an actual outpost. The Fallen had called them yotikai, camps of death in the tongue of his people. The warriors were still savage, still hunted for blood and skulls as they did on their home planet, a place that was no more real to them than the world to which they had been sent.

  They branded those they took. Fe’rein allowed a memory of the man Ryan Armen to drift into his conscious thoughts. Seth had talked of the time he spent in this very camp, and the horrors of their silent and brutal ways. The dark brushes of brown and black marred the primitive tents that the Umordoc erected.

  They did not fear the cold. Their hides were thick, like coarse leather. The fur that covered them retained heat better than any set of wraps or layers of coats that the tundra dwellers wore.

  The ground beneath Fe’rein swirled.

  As his feet touched the earth, snow cascaded around him like a brilliant vortex and then evaporated with a subtle swipe of his hand. He had made sure to land inside their encampment. His entrance alone was a demonstration of his power.

  Umordoc poured from the tents.

  The rough bristles of their coats were lighter than those of Culouth, a necessity when hunting on the tundra. The mion stalked forward as he would anywhere else and eyed each with a fire that was not seen by predators of their capacity. He knew the tongue of the Umordoc, a loud, abrasive dialect consisting mostly of guttural howls and cryptic word structure.

  The first to reach him was the High Warrior, the leader of the tribe. It was the custom for their leader to present himself first. As they were a warrior tribe by nature, their ancient rites still dominated. He was as large as the others, but his coloration was lighter, more of a hazel brown. He carried a long carved pole. Serrated edges crested the peak. The ceremonial decoration of bones and skulls were present as well, but they were gray and faded.

  “Why have you come?” The language was more guttural and pointed than Fe’rein had remembered.

  “I am the Gagnion’Fe’rein,” roared Fe’rein, using the dark powers he possessed to amplify his voice.

  The legends were prevalent even in the north.

  The Gagnion’Fe’rein was a creation of the Umordoc culture, not of men. It was a powerful myth that had been carried to Terra during the Great Wars of the last days of civilization. To them the Gagnion’Fe’rein was an All-god, a powerful being that wielded the darkest of powers.

  “Why have you come?”

  “I have come to deliver your enemies,” snarled Fe’rein, utilizing the fiercest tone he could muster.

  The High Warrior did not answer, but instead waved his massive arm to the two Umordoc behind him. They barred their teeth as they leapt forward.

  A test of strength was not uncommon.

  The mion had certainly expected it.

  Fe’rein
decided against using the dark powers and fell back as the two approached. Leaping above their low attack, he snapped forward, breaking a pole in half. He then drove the splintered end into the throat of the first Umordoc warrior. The Umordoc fell unceremoniously to his knees and gurgled before collapsing into the snow.

  The second did not hesitate at the sight of his fallen brethren and lashed out viscously with his pole. Fe’rein butted the end with his open palm and then rolled his arm around. He yelled in surprise as a sharp end of rope emerged, latching onto his wrist.

  Before Fe’rein even moved, his eyes flooded into darkness and his free hand grasped the pole. The wood and steel melted in the hands of the Umordoc warrior, and he dropped the pole with a startled look on his face. Fe’rein stalked forward again. His feet liquefied the snow with each step.

  The Umordoc warrior did not back down.

  Their honor and pride as a warrior would not allow it.

  Fe’rein’s eyes were focused on the High Warrior once more. As the second warrior leapt forward, the mion simply raised his hand, wiping the warrior from the face of Terra.

  “I am the Gagnion’Fe’rein and I have come to show you your enemies,” repeated Fe’rein, looking back at the clear spot in the snow where he had incinerated the second warrior.

  *

  The yotikai camp was beside the mountains on the far side of the plains that, in Fe’rein’s youth, were called the Barren Maiden. It was a hundred-odd mile stretch of ice that did not have a marker anywhere along it; beside the mountain stood the High Warrior of the Umordoc and Fe’rein. His body was consumed in shadow fire to warm him from the cold of the tundra.

  “This place, you know what it is?” asked Fe’rein without looking at the chieftain.

  “The Maiden,” replied the High Warrior, his staff dug deep into the snow.

  “A man will come. This man will lead you to the Fallen.”

  The Warrior grunted in satisfaction. The Fallen were a sore spot among the Umordoc. They were their greatest enemy, for they had kept the location of their caverns secret until now. “You smell of the Fallen.”