The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  Fe’rein wheeled on the High Warrior, his eyes blazing. He realized that the Umordoc hunted on scent and instinct, and such an essence could not be erased. A gesture could make them see one’s true form. “No more.”

  The High Warrior’s grunt felt otherwise.

  “You must keep a patrol here so that you can be sure of his coming. I cannot tell you when because I do not know. But he will come, that I can promise.”

  “Who is the traveler?” The question was phrased as if the High Warrior knew that the man who would come was not of the tundra.

  “He is a man. No more, no less,” replied Fe’rein.

  The High Warrior’s dark eyes studied Fe’rein with an uncomfortable silence. “He wishes to become the Ai’mun’hereun. That is why you have come?” It was a statement more than it was a question.

  “He wishes to wipe those that are not of this earth from it. He is no messiah,” challenged Fe’rein. He was sick of the religions and belief systems of the tundra people. His years among the Fallen had been a series of relentless logical and philosophical arguments that had led him nowhere. He was the All-god now, and no one was going to take that away from him.

  The High Warrior seemed to ignore his words. He turned his massive back to Fe’rein as he surveyed the breadth of the plains. “The winds speak. They say that the Final War has come. The Ai’mun’hereun and the Gagnion’Fe’rein shall meet on the battlefield as they have since the beginning.”

  Fe’rein boiled with the same frustration that he felt when he spoke to the Intelligence; their cryptic games and prophecies annoyed him to no end. “Which side will the great warriors of the yotikai align themselves with?”

  “We have worshipped the Gagnion’Fe’rein since before we came to this world as our ancestors did. Those who reside on U’Mor believe that the Gagnion’Fe’rein will free the Umordoc from the service of your masters.”

  “Then you wish to see the Believer fall before my feet?” Tiredness washed over Fe’rein. He had not slept in some time. The dreams of the past haunted him, but he felt a sudden need for sleep as he spoke to the High Warrior of the Umordoc.

  “You are not the true Gagnion’Fe’rein, but we will do as you have instructed. We will destroy our enemies and feast on their corpses as our ancestors have done,” spoke the Umordoc leader with a grand sigh and sag of his shoulders.

  Fe’rein felt compelled to pressure the Umordoc chieftain. His words were unsettling to the mion. “I am not the Gagnion’Fe’rein? What do you mean?”

  “The Gagnion’Fe’rein of U’Mor would not serve the dark lords of the Intelligence. He would cut them down and watch them burn in the fire of his eyes. He would roast the enemies of the Umordoc in the shadow fires of his eternal birth. You serve the Intelligence, are bound to them as the Umordoc are. We follow because we must, for they hold our true names above our heads like a grand prize. Why do you serve them?”

  The words of the chieftain were a challenge.

  “I have the power of Terra, half-birthed of fire. I am the Gagnion’Fe’rein of this world or the next, and I will see all burn at my feet before this war is done,” returned Fe’rein. Of late the passion in his soul had awakened an anger that could not be soothed.

  “Your power cannot be denied, but you will always be Ryan Armen of the Fallen. No more, no less,” returned the High Warrior with a shrug.

  Fe’rein struck the High Warrior across the face with such strength that it shook the earth on which they stood. The ground groaned as the High Warrior fell to his knees from the blow. The even gaze of the Umordoc leader showed no fear of the man before him. “You will not speak that name,” roared Fe’rein, vengeance on his lips.

  “The winds speak your true name. I did not know that it would upset such a powerful being. Pardon my impertinence,” replied the High Warrior as he stood. His voice was true and stable, though the blood along his jaw betrayed his unaltered presence.

  “Just do as I have instructed, Umordoc. You will see the blood of your enemies soon enough,” snapped Fe’rein as he shot into the sky.

  He spiraled as the dark power consumed him, leaving the Umordoc overlooking the plains below. He left the chieftain with unanswered questions and the unsettling feeling of having been in the presence of a deity.

  ⱷ

  E’Malkai

  The white hunter Arile carried nothing except E’Malkai’s extra pack and a faded white cloak with a face mask. With a thick mesh of wool and other heated fabrics, he seemed ill-prepared compared to the mummified body of E’Malkai. The spear that Arile carried was strapped along his back, underneath his pack.

  S’rean insisted that they proceed through the last stretch of the Hall of Spines in order to move around the southern peaks and onto the Barren Maiden: the most difficult leg of the journey by far, for there was little shelter even along the edges of it.

  The Fallen was hidden somewhere there.

  The dire plains of the Maiden extended far into the distance. Located at the base of the Seven Mountains, they formed an almost perfect ring around it. From its center only scant cover could be found even up to the base of the mountains.

  Arile walked ahead of E’Malkai.

  E’Malkai jogged to get beside him.

  The man they called the White One did not turn to the youth of the south, but listened to his words all the same. They were at the edge of the Hall of Spines, where the depth of the canyon rose to meet the tundra. As they crested it, the plains came into view.

  He groaned.

  “How long will it take us to get to the Fallen?” E’Malkai called over the gales that greeted them as they stepped out of the shelter provided by the canyon.

  “We have hundreds of miles to cover. We can make twenty miles a day, if we do not rest every day. It could be ten days, could be twenty days. It all depends on how long the weather holds,” replied Arile as he lowered his head against the wind and ice.

  E’Malkai lifted his legs as he moved through the snow, trying to make up the distance that Arile seemed to create with minimal effort. “What do you mean if the weather holds? It gets worse than this?”

  Arile laughed.

  It was so shallow that it was lost on the frigid winds.

  The white hunter turned his head slightly as he pressed forward. “We can see one mile now. When the clouds emerge and the storms blow through, we will be lucky to be able to see each other.”

  E’Malkai fell back.

  He lowered his head, but moved forward again. His mind still reeled at Arile’s words. Such a thing seemed impossible. They would be lost in hours if that kind of weather descended upon them. “We have to endure hundreds of miles of that?”

  The hunter shook his head.

  “If we can survive the next fifty, then we can round the mountain and move into the pass that leads to the plains. The plains themselves take the brunt of the storms, but it is merely temporary. On this side of the mountains, the storms come and sit for weeks at a time.”

  The wind blew against E’Malkai so hard that he almost toppled. In order to stay upright he had to lower his center of gravity as Elcites had taught him, which meant spreading his legs out and bending down evenly.

  He looked at Arile, and the man had not stopped, but instead continued ahead. His body already began to disappear in the snow, and the youth ran after him. The muscles of his legs warmed with blood, though he knew soreness would soon accompany that sensation.

  *

  The journey between the Hall of Spines and the pass was made easier by remaining close to the side of the mountain. E’Malkai had not realized that the Hall of Spines lay at the base of the mountains. The deeper tunnels where the Utiakth lived were actually buried beneath the mountains, thus the reason for the warmth of the rooms there.

  They made good time across the hills north of the Hall of Spines and rounded the side of the mountains into the pass after only three days without rest. The pass was a wretched canyon of ice that extended up the side of the mountain.


  They darted into it.

  The gales subsided at the first bundle of rock outcroppings. Arile ducked behind them and waved his hand for E’Malkai to follow, which he did willingly. He plopped down beside the hunter and huddled close to the wall.

  “We need to rest here for the night. The winds have changed and granted us a brief reprieve from their icy breath. The plains on which so much of our journey will be are no more than several miles ahead of us. This canyon is dangerous.”

  “Dangerous how?” countered E’Malkai as he pulled his pack from around his back and placed it in between his feet.

  “The path grows narrower with each step, and the other side is only wide enough to allow one man to pass at a time. The Hall of Spines looks dull compared to what lies ahead,” replied Arile as he pulled the secondary pack from his back, gripping the spear in his right hand. “I’m not sure what I can get for food. The game is sparse this side of the canyon. There will be plenty of tundra wolves, and all other manner of creatures along the plains.”

  E’Malkai moved to say something more, but Arile had already leapt to his feet and disappeared out the entrance. The canyon was closed off on either end and though the top seemed to climb forever, at its very apex was a layer of ice that enclosed it.

  The youth began to pull things from his pack until he found the heat generator that Elcites had insisted he take. Producing a sliver of fat that had been packaged, he un-zipped the flat sterile plastic case that held it.

  He pulled some fabric free of his coat and laid it on top of the fat and placed them in a pile in front of him. Igniting the heat generator, a stream of energy erupted and lit the fabric and fat. It crackled as it burned, producing the first real warmth the youth had felt for some time; the halls of the Utiakth had been humid at best.

  E’Malkai felt warmth in his eyes. Letting the generator fall from his hands, the metal made a slight noise as it touched the ground. The youth paid it no attention as he slid back against the rock, making himself comfortable. Soon, the fire crackled and the warmth caressed his worn muscles. Sleep came and when it did, he did not dream.

  *

  The reality of the situation flashed back to E’Malkai as he awoke with a start. The flame at his feet still crackled and the solemn figure of Arile sat beside him, a brace of some small animal skewered on his spear. As E’Malkai settled himself back against the rock, Arile’s war-torn voice rang true.

  “Foolish thing to do, sleeping with no one to guard,” he spoke as he produced a knife from his side and began to skin the creature, gutting it after he finished. A stick was at his side for the finished product. “Something could have come along, wolf, hybear, even one of the Umordoc of the yotikai, then we would have both been in some trouble.”

  E’Malkai felt the embarrassment of his error. He straightened, replacing the generator and plastic flat of fat back into his pack. “I am sorry. I was very tired. I did not mean to doze off like that.”

  Arile drove the stick through the open mouth of the creature and placed it over the two standing supports above the fire. The meat sizzled, its fat dissolving almost instantly. “You have never been on the tundra before, have you?”

  E’Malkai shook his head as the hunter leaned back against the rock, crossing his legs and folding his arms across his chest. “Need a strong will to survive on the tundra. Your ancestors were born of the Fallen, of the line of Armen no less. It is in your blood to survive out here.”

  The youth looked at him suspiciously.

  Arile chuckled and pointed at the hilt of the planedge at E’Malkai’s waist. “You carry a blade of the Fallen, blades that were given only to those hunters and gatherers who braved the tundra. The tribe of Re’klu’hereun was close to the Fallen before we were run down by the yotikai. The line of Armen was the only one given such an honor for as long as the memory of the Re’klu’hereun serves.”

  “Do you know much of the Fallen?”

  E’Malkai was interested now.

  “I know some of their history, of their practices. There is one thing that I could not know. For that matter, only an Armen would. The location of the entrance to the Fallen was a well-guarded secret, given only to the hunter chosen once a generation. Before your father, it was his father, and so on. I cannot find the Fallen. I can only lead you to where it might be. You must discern its location,” explained Arile as he reached forward from his relaxed position and turned the animal over the fire.

  “But I have never been to the Fallen,” replied E’Malkai exasperated at the sudden twist of events. “How can I possibly know where it is?”

  “You will have to pray to your ancestors, call their spirits in a trance. Perhaps they will lead you, or perhaps we will freeze to death on the Barren Maiden. Either way, you should know that before we get there. I can only show you the way. You must choose our path from there.”

  He reached forward and pulled the carcass off the fire. The white hunter tore a piece of the meat, sniffing before biting into it. He chewed it for a moment. Satisfied with the taste, he handed it to E’Malkai, who accepted it with a smile. The youth gnawed at a piece thoughtfully. “Since you have already slept, you will stand guard while I sleep. We move again at first light.”

  It was difficult to tell the time of day on the tundra, though at night the haze was darker. Arile had spoken of being able to see the sun on a nice day, but he doubted that they would be so lucky given the severity of the season. The white hunter soon fell asleep, and E’Malkai stood guard. Thoughts of what he must do flooded his mind. The journey was beginning to require more of him than he thought possible. And even though he knew that he must not sleep, his eyelids grew heavy as exhaustion overwhelmed him once more.

  ⱷ

  The Stone Tower

  The Ninth Company of the Culouth Commerce was a unit that was one hundred and twenty-seven thousand strong, the largest battalion that still resided on the Lower Plane. Their singular purpose in life was to watch Illigard and T’elen.

  Their outpost was located on the far side of the wasteland: sixty miles east of the swamps, near the cliffs that overlooked the aptly named Sea of Torments. The stone fortress that had been erected as their outpost had been dubbed the Stone Tower, and within its walls were a veritable swarm of humans. Those imbued with cybernetic enhancements moved alongside those without.

  A scrawny messenger dashed through the sea of bodies, dodging and wheeling around the shoulder-to-shoulder traffic of the assembled soldiers. The shadow of his brown hair was tucked beneath a dark black cap. The torment on his face arose from sheer frustration at the people in his way. The far wall of the Stone Tower faced the ocean and was marked with splashes of white and gray, the salt from the sea carving its name on the stone.

  The common area of the courtyard grew narrower as it approached the far keep, where the Field General resided. And consequently, it was the destination of the wayward messenger.

  The messenger leapt about through the mess.

  Before him a winding spiral of a staircase climbed up. Finding his footing on the steps, he ascended them with grace. He reached the wooden door at its apex in no more than a few bounds. The door was wide and thick; some would say much like the Field General himself. A white stylized letter was etched at its center, a blackened ring hung as the door handle.

  The messenger wiped his brow with the loose edge of his sleeve. His cold brown irises were strained with red lines from lack of sleep and worry. Since the disappearance of T’elen and her possible defection to the Resistance, all Culouth Commerce soldiers had been placed on high alert. The quick knock was received with an even quicker response to enter. The messenger opened the door, revealing the cramped quarters of their leader.

  The messenger saluted stiffly, his eyes straight ahead. “Field General Lassen, I bring reports from the scouts along the wasteland.”

  The Field General turned and eyed the messenger. He quickly identified that he was not a soldier of the Stone Tower. Lassen’s cold gr
ay eyes had a calculating edge to them. His black hair was spiky. The veins of his neck surged as he turned, and a thin outline of a tattoo emerged from his neckline.

  He wore a thin mustache. His lips pursed in annoyance at the disturbance. Lassen was a large man, standing at least six feet tall, perhaps a few inches more. The width of his shoulders and coils of his muscles made him appear as if he solely depended on his brawn. But, in the field he was a far better tactician than most, hence his placement at the Stone Tower.

  “Bring them forward,” snapped Lassen as he waved his hand for the messenger to approach.

  The thin frame of the messenger accentuated the breadth of the Field General. Lassen unwrapped the crumpled paper. His gray eyes washed over it, reading it several times. He then thrust it into his pocket with a sigh. The man was still at attention in the presence of the Field General.

  “Dismissed.”

  The words were curt and the messenger wasted no time as he scampered away, disappearing into the sea of bodies and noise outside. A worn oaken table sat below the stone opening that served as a window. The salty air from the ocean blew all over, infesting every inch with its smell.

  Three other men stood in the room.

  The farthest from the Field General sat on the rest in front of the stone opening. His light hair was longer than the others and waved in the winds that poured off the cliffs below. He wore the same gray fatigues as the others. The characteristic stripe that indicated one faction or another was absent. His eyes were a vast cerulean sky above an ocean of distrust and torment. The curve of his lips was like that of a woman, soft and buoyant. He pursed them as he watched the messenger retreat without a sound.

  “Anything worthwhile?” asked the man. His rank of lieutenant garnered him some respect. He had a real name, but in the Stone Tower he was simply called Fairhair. The golden wisps were a constant joke among his comrades.