by Dan O'Brien
“I love you, father.”
“And I love you, son. Do not allow others to tell you your destiny. Make your own.”
E’Malkai swallowed hard and fell to his knees. The wind blew his father away as if he were crystal fragments on the wind. The young warrior bent his head toward the ground, his hands wrapped tightly around his bound head, and wept. He punched the earth as hard as he could. A wisp of the emerald and white energy flashed over his fingers, but he shook it away.
E’Malkai looked around and saw that there were only the reflective mirrors of ice in each direction. He had walked much farther than he had anticipated. Standing, he saw Arile running toward him. His hands waved as he ran. His pack and the larger one that E’Malkai had carried were strapped over his shoulders, bouncing against his body.
“E’Malkai.”
E’Malkai looked around below him. Taking a step away, he saw a faint outline and regarded it quizzically as Arile arrived beside him.
“What are we looking at?” Arile spoke.
His labored breathing subsided quickly.
“This is the Fallen,” he replied as he felt a chill run up his spine. Spinning, he looked out across the plains of the Barren Maiden. “I felt something, like we were being watched.”
“You have wandered far, E’Malkai of the South. The Temple of the Ancients lies just east of here. You journeyed several days’ walk in a single night. I had to run the entire way and still camped one night before reaching you. I thought you had died during the trance; I thought you had walked to your death.”
E’Malkai raised a playful eyebrow.
“There was a possibility that I could walk to my death?”
“In this place, there is always a possibility of death,” he conceded, the humor lost.
The youth chuckled. “How long was I gone?”
“Like I said, that’s difficult to tell. It took me two nights and a day to reach you, including the first night. You vanished. I didn’t find a trail for well over a mile. I figured the shadows that you had been seeing had gotten you,” he chided.
“What is the Temple of Ancients?”
“A holy place.” The peculiar demeanor of the white hunter returned along with the head shakes and nods.
“Why is it a holy place?” continued E’Malkai. He was only half-interested as he crouched again, running his gloved hands along the ice to try and find the outline.
“That is where the dead of the tundra walk, those spirits that can no longer live among the Fallen or Utiakth, or any of the others of the tundra. They are sent there to walk out their final days, as well as those exiled. It is for that reason the Fallen refer to it as the Temple of Exiles.”
The youth grunted as he dug around the outline of the square with his finger until he had made a grove deep enough to pull on. He heaved and watched as the block creaked and gave way. Arile’s eyes widened as he watched the darkness beneath spread.
“Help me push it aside.”
Arile reached down without response and wrenched on the block of ice. What was beneath was comprised of clay and other hardened rock castes that the Fallen used. The hole was bathed in such darkness that it seemed unnatural next to the glassy exterior of the Maiden. “In all my years, I would not have thought I would live to see the interior of the Fallen.”
“Nor I,” replied E’Malkai with a nod. He picked up his pack from the ground and drew it across his shoulders, strapping it easily. His eyes were still fixated on the darkness. “I suppose nowhere to go but down.”
Before Arile could respond, the youth tucked his arms and dropped into the darkness. His feet made a loud sound as he landed. The white hunter shook his head before following. Grabbing the edges of the block, he pulled it over him as he, too, made the descent.
ⱷ
The Barren Maiden
The yotikai warrior had observed the young one as he ran brazenly across the ice. Following the youth along the ridges until he saw him standing in the midst of the Maiden, he watched as the young warrior spoke and pointed toward the ground. He continued to watch as the human stumbled through the darkness and then stood for some time, talking to the air.
The effects of the sand of the ancients, the warrior reasoned. The young one had to be the one the Gagnion’Fe’rein had spoken of, although he smelled human.
The White One had shown far more prowess.
The warrior was unconvinced.
He held the spear at his side, at a distance from his body, and ducked low on the cliffs that overlooked the plains. Given his Umordoc sight, he saw through the unnatural haze. He watched as they pulled aside the ice like a layer of skin, disappearing underneath into the darkness.
The location of the Fallen had been revealed.
The warrior smiled as much as an Umordoc could and spun, his black body disappearing much as the humans had. He hurried back to the yotikai. A great death would soon descend upon men.
ⱷ
Culouth
The Deliberations yawned into session. Yioren remained impassive despite what he knew in his heart to be true. The Resistance still required a political ally in Culouth, someone who could and would stand in when necessary. Fe’rein looked pale despite his usual grim demeanor. M’iordi looked equally so. However, his plastic smile remained in place.
“The Lady of the House of Te’huen seems to be absent from these proceedings as well as Bakar. Is there perhaps an undertone to its meaning, Yioren of the House of Di’huere? Is there an insidious plot that we should know of?” crooned M’iordi as he flashed his hyena grin.
The grace of Yioren remained intact despite his words. “Field Marshal T’elen is a complex woman. From what I have heard, the High Marshal would be better suited for such questioning. Illigard is a busy place. The swift entrance of winter has left many things for her to attend to,” replied Yioren, casually deflecting the man’s questions.
The High Marshal’s face squished in wrinkles as he regarded the lord of the House of Di’huere, but he did not speak. His words would betray his dark heart and reveal far too much.
Augustine’s ignorance was quite accurate. “There is no need for pretense here. For if we continue to banter within the Council, then what needs to be done shall be ignored. We have much to discuss.”
Kyien growled as he spoke. “The councilman is quite correct, of course. There are several matters before the Council. First, I would like to dismiss the wandering rumor that there was an assassination attempt on the Field Marshal’s life. I would like to ensure the Council that I was not a party to the violence against her.”
Yioren nodded, meeting the cruel and suspicious gaze of Kyien.
“Noted. However, I was unfamiliar with such a rumor.”
Kyien reddened visibly.
His scowl deepened at the words.
“Moving to the next order of business, we should address the sudden fortification of Illigard and the denial of messengers from Culouth. The Field Marshal’s sudden visit to the Stone Tower with a rather obstinate ultimatum, to a former of commander of Illigard no less, is very troubling,” returned M’iordi with a subtle dryness in his voice.
“I fear military matters are best left to those within the military. Unless Lord Kyien would like to contribute something, I must insist that you discuss these troubling developments with Field Marshal T’elen,” challenged Yioren with an ease that he held as a shield against their ferociousness.
“Surely, you can see the necessity of knowing where loyalties lie when faced with an insurrection. Regardless of previous speculation concerning T’elen’s intent, I now say that the rumors of her disloyalty have proven themselves true. She has taken control of Illigard: a well-maintained machine of destruction that is, by far, the most defensible position in the Culouth Empire. Can you not see that her plans have already been set in motion?” pressed M’iordi, allowing his smile to dissipate as the seriousness escalated.
“I assure you that the welfare of the people is the focal point of T’ele
n’s actions,” retorted Yioren, calmness still in place.
“Where is Leane?” Fe’rein’s voice was bone dry.
The question startled Yioren.
He had not anticipated speaking about the Lady of the House of Di’letirich. “I must say that since the rather severe beating and subsequent disappearance of her son, she has taken leave of Culouth. For how long, I cannot be certain,” he replied, counting his words.
“The boy is not dead. He has fled north.”
It was M’iordi’s turn to look at Fe’rein in surprise. “This is perhaps something that should not be…” began M’iordi.
Fe’rein cut off M’iordi as he spoke again. “This is no time for half-measures and lies. The boy is a threat to my existence as mion. I will have his head.”
The shock continued; flooding over all those assembled.
Yioren’s calm faded.
His smile was a grim line. “The Ai’mun’hereun will return as it has been prophesized in the ancient texts. You will fall, and all that you have burned to ash will grow once more.”
The shadow energy consumed Fe’rein before he plowed his fist into the table, splitting the thick metal in half. It was truly a feat worthy of recognition. The others pushed themselves back from the table. Yioren merely stood, his gaze that of a warrior.
“The whelp is a danger to us all. He seeks to destroy what is in place.”
Yioren drew his weapon, a desecration of the peace in the chambers. Kyien eyed the man, but made no movement toward him. Augustine and M’iordi were not warriors of the blade, but of the tongue. “The injustices of the Intelligence warrant whatever E’Malkai brings down upon them. Too long have they made this place their dark haven,” spoke Yioren.
Fe’rein closed his fist, and the crackle of his energy made a loud pop. Reaching the other hand out, he pointed it at Yioren. The councilman shifted his grip on the blade. Its handle was white lattice atop steel. The blade was straight with one sharpened edge, one dull, like a katana. He held the point of the blade out from his body, gripping the hilt with two hands.
“I will lay him down in an open grave beside you, so that you can rot alongside each other,” he spat. Fe’rein roared; a feral sound with no words. He pushed both of his hands forward. The energy leapt from his fingers; its spiraling and twisting wisps danced toward Yioren. The warrior side-stepped and caught the energy on his blade.
Twisting it, he carried the energy.
Those assembled watched as it dissipated into nothingness.
“You are not the only one with power.”
“I see that you did not come unprepared. The spies of the Ai’mun’hereun are indeed crafty, are they not?” mocked Fe’rein.
The Dark Creator rose from the ground.
His hands were held at his side, palms up. Ascending, he rose until he hovered over the shattered table. He looked down at Yioren with a tilted head, mockery once more at his disposal. The return smile was unexpected. Reaching his free hand out in front of him, Yioren held the blade in the other.
Wind swirled all around him.
His dark hair fluttered free as the winds spiked, and lightning flashed without thunder. White fire leapt up from a column beneath Fe’rein, consuming an already consumed man. His howl of pain could not be ignored. Fe’rein threw his arms aside, pushing back the energy that tore through him. He fell onto the broken table in a crouch, his arm reached out in front of him for balance.
“Impressive power for a mortal,” spat Fe’rein.
He scowled.
His dark eyes made darker by the shadow energy.
“I would say the same of you, Ryan Armen,” replied Yioren.
It seemed that those who sought to conquer the power of Fe’rein used his true name as a ward, though it did not help. The energy flowed from Fe’rein’s back like a set of dark wings. His power was more evident with the crimson streaks that claimed him as a vessel.
He flashed forward, his energy trail making him resemble a great dark beast. Face to face with Yioren, his mouth twisted into a sneer. His face was nothing more than dark pockets of crimson shadow fire. Yioren stepped back out of Fe’rein’s path and slammed his blade against the shadow.
The fire solidified, absorbing the blow, and the blade rebounded. The force sent Yioren in a spin away from Fe’rein. As he turned, Fe’rein thrust his fist through the man’s exposed back and flexed his fingers on the opposite side.
A strained groan escaped Yioren as Fe’rein lifted him from the ground. The electricity that had consumed his body faded as his blade fell from his hands. Fe’rein lowered his arm and Yioren slipped from it, landing on the ground with a sad, thick sound. Augustine and the others had stood by and now looked on with fear as Fe’rein stood over the man. He reached down and turned over the dying lord of the House of Di’huere.
Yioren had a glazed, diminished look.
He coughed. The thickness of the blood caught on his cheek and ran down his face. “He––will––come,” he gargled, his head dancing the waltz of death.
Fe’rein looked down at him. His own hand cradled the dying man’s neck and the shadow receded. “I hope that he comes and ends the pain as you have spoken. He will be met with only adversity and those who wish to destroy him.”
“He….”
There was no more as Yioren went limp.
His head fell back.
His eyes rolled over into the white gloss of death.
Fe’rein let him loose. The ceremonial garb was covered in blood. “So another dies for Culouth, another of the Great Houses falls by my hands.”
M’iordi shuffled forward and stood over the kneeling Fe’rein.
“They die because they must, for the sake of our way of life.”
Anger boiled in Fe’rein that he did not understand, one that had burned so strongly inside him many years ago. He did not rise to speak. “My enemies are the champions of their cause. A great man once told me that the choice of two lesser evils was not a choice at all. Does your faith let you sleep at night, M’iordi?”
The Secretary recoiled. The sting of Fe’rein’s words was strong. “You are my faith, my mion. Your very strength is what keeps Culouth in check. Your words scare me. For if your confidence is shaken, the times are dark indeed.”
Augustine shuffled forward as well. Kyien remained at a distance. To him, Fe’rein was the lesser of two evils. “The Council of Six is down to four, we certainly…” began Augustine.
Fe’rein raised his hand.
The energy leapt and consumed Augustine. His death was quick, ashes disintegrating into the stale air that circulated Culouth. “There is no more council. There are no more controls. Kyien, bring pain to Illigard.” Kyien looked at the spot where Augustine had stood just a moment before. “Kyien,” roared Fe’rein.
His dark eyes fell on him.
“Yes, my mion,” he stuttered recognizing the anger from before. “What would you have me do?”
Fe’rein’s fist clenched.
He continued to look at the lifeless body of Yioren. “Every resource at your disposal. Every man, woman, and child of Culouth I want ready to march on Illigard.”
Kyien’s mouth twisted.
He did not want to anger him more.
“That could take weeks, even months, to prepare such things.”
“I don’t want excuses. I want results. There is nothing else that matters now. She threatens our way of life. She must be crushed underfoot.”
Both Kyien and M’iordi felt the level of discomfort in the room rise. They exchanged worried glances with one another. The changing of the guard had come and neither was in the position of power that they sought.
“M’iordi, I want you to go to Illigard. Say that we oppose this war and do not desire bloodshed and whatever else you say when you address the masses. I want it delivered to T’elen herself,” continued Fe’rein as he moved away from Yioren’s body.
“You wish her to believe that there is no attack, so that when it comes
she will be buried beneath it?” queried Kyien incredulously at the callous way that the mion planned the defeat of their enemy. “Do you believe that she will not see us moving armies into place?”
Fe’rein stood fastidiously with his arms planted against the wall to the left of the seats that rose to the ceilings. “Use the women and children as cover. Have the men ride in covered transports and the women the only ones visible. Make them walk in the cold for all I care, but cover your tracks.”
“Why would you kill Councilman Augustine? He would not have betrayed you. He also feared your power,” queried M’iordi, getting his wits back about him.
“Now there are only two who know of the things we do. That means one less man to worry about when one of you betrays. Now you have seen what I will do to those who do not bend to my will,” replied Fe’rein without rancor or venom. He spoke as if it were mundane––like the passing of a cloud or a good meal.
“Indeed,” stammered M’iordi. His throat was suddenly rather dry. He held his hands together to stop the tremors that had begun.
“Attend to your duties and leave me in peace,” Fe’rein snarled without meeting their gazes. They moved past, heads lowered, eyes fixed on the floor. “And get someone to clean up this mess,” he added as they passed beneath the arches out into the city.
ⱷ
E’Malkai
The darkened tunnels that wove deep into the Fallen remained as they were two decades previous: damp and dank the deeper they traveled. The winding hall was framed by stalagmites and other rock formations. Slimy viscous materials drained down the walls. Some were dried and gave off a rainbow of colors, while others still ran with seeping fluid in a bulbous line down the rock.
E’Malkai walked out ahead. He had pulled the wraps around his face down. His long brown hair was stringy and pulled off like dreadlocks. Blue eyes stared out from behind a youthful beard, scraggly and ill-maintained.
