The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  “The Final War is upon Terra. The tundra is no safer than the south. Beyond the dark marker to the south is another place, one that was once a fertile and populated land. Now it stands at the crossroads of the Final War.”

  E’Malkai continued.

  Once more there was silence.

  “The south is full of people who believe in the Ai’mun’hereun. The enemies of the Light outnumber them. It is written that the tribes of the tundra can become champions in the Final War if they choose to walk from their shelter and into the embrace of others. This is why I send you south. This is why the Utiakth and the mountain people will travel south from this cold prison.”

  “Why would we fight for another?” queried Mete as he stepped forward beside his sister. His vacant expression mirrored those of his fellow Fallen.

  E’Malkai sighed.

  He did not have the strength to explain to these people why things must be done––that there was a greater good and a powerful evil that infected the land far beyond their comprehension.

  “There was a man who once walked among the Fallen.”

  Mete’s face brightened.

  “You father, Seth Armen.”

  E’Malkai shook his head.

  “There was another Armen, Ryan, who as well was banished with my father. When he was here, he was a different man: a boy like I am now. He was sensitive, kind. I did not know him as he was then. Darkness infects my uncle, the man you once knew as Ryan Armen. He took the power from the Desert of the Forgotten. He is no longer that child of the Fallen, but instead a monster called Fe’rein, a dark tyrant who claims the land as his. And it is his greed and lust for power that has brought your Final War of legend down upon the land. You should fight because those who oppose my uncle believe as you do in the possibility of a tomorrow––one without shadow and darkness.”

  Higald moved toward the youth.

  His mouth was agape, eyes wide.

  “You speak of the Gagnion’Fe’rein. Ryan Armen is no more.”

  “Will you do as I have spoken?” queried E’Malkai.

  Higald seemed far away as he looked at the youth. “We have little choice if the words of the ancient texts have come to pass. There is no room for error in those pages. They speak of past, present, and future.”

  E’Malkai leaned in close to the chieftain. “You must begin the evacuation now. Soon more Umordoc will return in greater force to finish what the others started. That battle is one that cannot be won here.”

  “What of the other tribes?”

  E’Malkai turned to Arile and tapped him on the chest. “You must return to the Utiakth. Tell them their Ai’mun’hereun commands them south.”

  Arivene grabbed his arm and pulled him to face her. “You make it sound as if this is to be our doing. Can you not lead us all?”

  Mihen had been slowly making his way to the front of the common house. He came up alongside the girl. His warm smile caused her to forget for a moment.

  “There is much for E’Malkai to do.”

  Arivene’s eyes pooled and she stood in silence, staring at him without comment. “You cannot come with us to your home?”

  E’Malkai shook his head.

  He felt a tug in his chest. “The Temple of the Ancients holds answers to the puzzle of who I am and what I must do. I am sorry, Arivene.”

  She shook her head.

  “You promised that I could be your guide and I am going to hold you to that. You do not know the tundra as we do. You will need someone to lead you to the Temple of the Ancients,” she demanded. Her brown eyes hung on the edge of pleading and forcefulness.

  Mete stepped forward and placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “She cannot traverse the Maiden without a warrior.”

  E’Malkai spread his hands, relieved at the man’s understanding.

  The warrior folded his arms over his chest and continued. “That is why I will accompany you to the Temple of the Ancients, for I could not leave my sister to brave the cold alone. I have pledged my life to the Ai’mun’hereun.”

  The youth threw up his hands and turned to Higald.

  “Gather the disciplinary soldiers and get these people going. Travel night and day until you reach the southern border where the black marker stands tall. There is a village three days’ journey south. Mention my name. They will remember me.”

  “And then what?”

  E’Malkai crossed his arms, the long sleeves of the shirt he wore draped over one another. “Wait there for Arile and the Utiakth. Then make your way south along the coast––as far west as you can travel. You will find few friends for several days, weeks even, but you are searching for Illigard, a castle in the south. The leader there is woman named T’elen. My mother, Leane, is there as well.”

  “That is where the warriors of the Light will be?”

  “I believe so.”

  E’Malkai closed his eyes and focused, slowing sounds and images around him as Elcites had taught him. He heard Higald’s voice slow and then it was distant, a lifetime away. The tundra flashed out before him, through the massive opening that led into the Fallen now and then over the Maiden––down through the pass to the east and over the mists of the Hall of Spines.

  He passed the miles between the northern marker and the Hall of Spines in an instant. Linar remained as it had been: common houses and the grayish brown tents littered around it. It seemed undisturbed, so the youth pushed south until he reached the smoking ruins of Duirin.

  Umordoc soldiers walked the streets.

  He could see the burnt and ravaged bodies.

  E’Malkai felt their pain and pushed on toward Illigard. Snow covered the swamps. Trenches had been built. Specks of soldiers were hidden deep within the snow.

  He moved to the east and saw the army that had been amassed, millions of bodies poised hundreds of miles from Illigard. The image of Fe’rein came into view and he felt his mind pulled toward him. His dark visage was surrounded in shadow fire. And as E’Malkai approached overhead, he felt an overwhelming urge to scream in terror.

  The face turned, the dark eyes burning into E’Malkai.

  Fe’rein opened his mouth and the shadow fire erupted.

  E’Malkai jerked forward, his eyes fluttering.

  Reality flowed back into his vision. He was still standing, barely. Higald and the others looked at him with concern. His throat was tight and he felt thirsty.

  Licking his lips, he swallowed hard as he tried to speak.

  “You do have the Sight,” whispered Arivene in awe.

  E’Malkai looked around. “Water.”

  Arivene nodded to her brother and he disappeared out of sight.

  She placed her hands on his face.

  “What did you see?”

  E’Malkai shook his head and looked around. He felt inexplicably drunk. “It is the homing technique. Elcites taught it to me. He told me to use it to see what was necessary.”

  “And what did you see?” urged Higald.

  E’Malkai closed his eyes and the flash of Fe’rein came again.

  He opened his eyes and sighed, sitting back in one of the flat-backed chairs. “I saw the path that we must take. There is already so much carnage. The place of my birth, Duirin, is destroyed, burnt to ashes and waste. The battlefield is set. Millions of soldiers stand ready for the Final War. Do you understand the capacity of millions of men?”

  Higald nodded.

  “You will not encounter anyone in your trek south. The Final War has begun. Lines have been drawn in the sand. We can spare no more time. The Umordoc attack was meant to end my life. The Intelligence knows that I am alive. They will send more; they will come for me. You must leave immediately,” replied E’Malkai, his labored stare laced with urgency.

  Mete returned, a ceramic vase filled with water in his hands.

  E’Malkai grasped it gratefully.

  A thin smile crossed his lips as he drank from it. Water spilled over the sides of the bowl and down his face to his shirt. Higald t
urned without further word; around him the assemblage began to disperse.

  “Will journeying south save our people?” asked Mete as he gripped the hilt of his weapon tightly.

  E’Malkai pulled the bowl away from his face before he spoke.

  “It will give the Fallen a chance. The prophecies and ancient texts can be vague, open to interpretation, but the threat to the south is very real. The Fallen are tundra warriors, and this is a war waged in the winter.”

  Arivene seemed uncomfortable with his words. “I have read some of the ancient texts. They speak of dark times without the Ai’mun’hereun.”

  E’Malkai nodded. “That is why the journey to the Temple is necessary. The texts speak of it several times: a link exists. I must find out what it has to do with everything that is happening. The tundra is collapsing. The world around us is falling from the skies and if I am to be at the center of it, then I wish to know more of what is going on.”

  Arile had a surreal way of remaining silent, as if he were merely an apparition. “The Temple is a sacred place. Do not forget that there are many things hidden in that darkness. Things that will kill you because of what you are,” he cautioned.

  E’Malkai nodded.

  “You must tread softly,” the white hunter pressed. “The path that you have chosen is a difficult one. The path of the Fallen has always been one shrouded in misery and pain––since those who first walked away from the Re’klu’hereun and found solace in these caves. The Desert of the Forgotten is where your destiny lies. I hope that you find what you need.” He bowed. “Peace be to the Believer and those who walk in the Light.”

  “That is what I hope to find in the Temple, the end of my journey,” replied E’Malkai. The white hunter extended his hand, which E’Malkai gripped tightly. The thin line of his smile twisted. “I hope.”

  The common house was now empty.

  Darkened corners seemed to be infected with doubt and rage, the dwindling emotions that lingered in E’Malkai’s heart. Arile moved away from E’Malkai and the siblings. As his shadow crested the entrance, E’Malkai felt as if the embers of the fire that burned within him had been chilled by the winds of the tundra.

  ⱷ

  Kyien

  The Final War covered the land. Trenches had been dug by Illigard. Culouth forces had grown to several million, their numbers scattered in formation along the frozen, icy dunes cascading far off into the distance. Each solider was a copy of the one previous: bright yellow stripes on faded gray uniforms. Armored transports and assault vehicles moved sluggishly.

  The temperature on the battlefield grew ever colder.

  The Intelligence had banned the construction of aerial assault vehicles. They had feared insurrection. With armored transports providing little help on a frozen battlefield, they had fallen to horseback. Something that was more primitive than any would care to admit.

  A dark black stallion, shaggy and miserable, was fitted with silvery armor. One large spike extended from a helmet over its head, like the grand protrusion of a unicorn. Kyien sat atop it. His ceremonial robes were covered in layers of darks and grays, a hood covering his head. A red scarf was wrapped around his face to combat the cold winds.

  An Umordoc approached him.

  He wore the same leathery armor as the soldiers who had razed Duirin to the ground. He carried a sickle across his back. The dark black shaft was riddled with rusted finger grips. An assault rifle lay in his hands.

  “High Marshal Kyien, we stand ready,” he growled.

  Kyien stared at the beast, holding his hand over the folds of the scarf to keep it in place. “What do we know of Illigard?”

  The Umordoc soldier shook his head. The tufts of his fur whipped as the wind swirled about him, crystals of snow and ice mixed within. “The Field Marshal…”

  “Former Field Marshal, soldier. She is no longer an officer,” corrected Kyien.

  The Umordoc continued without hesitation. “T’elen has been vigilant in eluding our reconnaissance. We remain blind to her machinations.”

  Kyien looked off into the distance. The cold, unforgiving landscape made the war more desolate, more apparent. Its presence was made immediate. “She hides behind Illigard.”

  “That may be, High Marshal, but Illigard is waiting. Trenches extend to the gates of the outpost.”

  Kyien stared again.

  He did not understand the tundra people, how they could look out upon the vast desolation that imprisoned them, generation after generation. It was a tomb, an interminable sentence in a cage from which one could never be sprung.

  He looked to the blade at his side. The ornate hilt and sheath were purely ceremonial. In his years as High Marshal, he had never drawn a blade against an opponent. He had fired an assault rifle from time to time, but nothing like the mayhem that this war would bring.

  Never had so many been assembled on a single battlefield.

  “How far until the first trench?” he asked.

  The Umordoc looked into the winds as well.

  The uncomfortable shifting of the soldiers was barely discernible. Most had the presence of mind to stifle their discomfort as best they could despite the conditions. “The swamp edge is a few hundred feet from here, and perhaps a mile from there is the first trench.”

  “Are there signs of mines or pitfalls?”

  “None. There is some evidence of encampments, several actually. They are mostly scouts and border patrols from Illigard who will run at the first sign of attack, to a more fortified set of trenches closer to Illigard.”

  The High Marshal hesitated before he spoke. “Send in the first wave, a hundred thousand. Run the scouts down and take the first trench. The rest shall camp here for now. We do not wish to allow our prey time to rest.”

  The Umordoc moved off into the battlements.

  Kyien watched him.

  The beasts disgusted him. The years among them in Culouth had not changed his opinion. He wished to exterminate them with the trash of Illigard, but Fe’rein and others in Culouth did not share his zeal for genocide.

  He would have his day.

  Kyien watched as the Umordoc soldier, good to his word, barked orders. Men marched deeper into the frozen hills, their feet drowned in the slush that had collected around them. Waiting, he wondered if this could truly be an end to all things.

  ⱷ

  E’Malkai

  E’Malkai paused as Mete and Arivene walked out ahead of him. Moving east toward the pass, he and the siblings would part with Arile once the Temple came into view. The procession of the Fallen moved slowly into the horizon to the south.

  This was the path of the Fallen: to leave their home because the Ai’mun’hereun had commanded it. He was their messiah, their leader. E’Malkai could hear their voices on the cold winds; soft, mournful tones spoken in a dialect that E’Malkai was not familiar with––an old tongue that spoke only of sadness. Their swift evacuation was done without panic or outcry.

  He felt alone.

  He had learned to silence the voices that whispered to him. Their haunting words echoed in his mind. He knew what was to come. The rhetoric of war rang hollowly in his mind, the utter uselessness of a perspective that cost lives.

  As he moved forward, he realized how light his pack was. He had given the majority of his food to the Fallen who traveled south. They needed far more than he did; at least that is what he had felt at the time.

  He watched the earth beneath him, finding great comfort in being surrounded by ice. The conformity overwhelmed him. There was no escaping the tundra.

  He looked out ahead, his face and body wrapped in the tight coils of the wraps once more. Arile moved out ahead of E’Malkai, his head lowered and his spear dug into the ground. The steely point was covered in a soft leather pouch to keep the harsh bite of the icy storm from blunting his weapon.

  Mete and Arivene walked side by side.

  She wore clothes that appeared twice her size. The layers upon layers covered weapons as well.
He had watched her tuck knives and other small blades into sheaths.

  They had suffered in silence since leaving the Fallen. He had felt such a connection when they had first spoken, and to have it severed so suddenly stung. The emergence of his latent power had frightened many of the Fallen. They saw him as more than a man now, yet he felt only loneliness.

  He was a vagrant vessel upon the sea.

  Mete towed a sled behind him, much to the dismay of both Arivene and E’Malkai. She had seen it as unnecessary with the protection of the Ai’mun’hereun. The youth had felt Mete’s strengths and skills needed to be accessible, and would not be so if he were burdened with extra weight. E’Malkai had even offered to carry the pack, but neither sibling would hear of it.

  E’Malkai remained skeptical of their beliefs. The shadow of the Temple loomed the farther they traveled from the Fallen. The architecture was otherworldly.

  He jogged forward.

  The fire in his lungs was put out of his mind as he closed the distance between the siblings and came up alongside Arivene––neither turned to him.

  “When was the Temple built?” he called over the winds.

  Mete grunted as he rolled his shoulder and allowed the leather restraints of the pack to settle on another patch of his bruised flesh. The fabric beneath where the straps had been was dark with sweat and blood. “We do not know. It has been here for as long as we can remember.”

  E’Malkai looked to Arivene, but the side of her face was shielded by a hooded cloak. Her hair hung out the front in feathery wisps. Strands that had not been buried beneath the collection of fabrics and warmth struggled free. “It does not look like a building,” replied E’Malkai, his attention focused on Arivene. “Not one that I have ever seen.”

  Arivene turned slightly, the pale of her cheek a sliver inside the cloak. Deep brown eyes looked to him. “They say that it is not of this earth. They say that when the powers first came to Terra this is what they left behind,” she spoke.

  The Temple was in full view now.

  E’Malkai slowed as he looked at the monstrosity. Something familiar lingered in his mind. The dark mouth that led deeper into the building resembled something that the youth could not yet place. Arile stood before the abysmal recess, his spear dug deep into the earth. The loose fabrics of his clothes blew all around him. E’Malkai moved up next to him as he stared at the monolith.