The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  E’Malkai sat back.

  He spun the chair, using his legs to push him around in a spin. “That gives us less than twelve hours to figure out where the Desert of the Forgotten is, and how to fly this thing,” he announced, the set of his brow serious. The others merely stared. This was a journey that would forever change their lives.

  ⱷ

  Higald

  Higald awoke suddenly at dawn. The first light of the day peeked through the gray cloud cover. He realized that in all his years on this earth he had never witnessed a sunrise. The orange and gold broke through the clouds, setting the horizon on fire as it rose to greet the darkness. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and peered through the front flap of his tent.

  This was the first time he had worn so little clothes outside, but the tundra and this winter were like fall and summer to the chieftain. He reached to his side and pulled the coat around his shoulders before pushing past the tent flap. He had slept with his boots on, a sign of being on the tundra for too long. Carrying his mammoth broadsword in one hand, the other touched the mist of the morning air, caressing the tendrils that whisked by him.

  He closed his eyes and thoughts of a life that would soon be forgotten flooded his mind: images of the Fallen when he was a youth; Evan Armen leading parties out on to the tundra without fear; memories of he and Seth pretending to be guides themselves; dancing around in the caverns of the Fallen, not yet ready for the responsibilities that would tether them both.

  Opening his eyes, he saw the dark-garbed disciplinary soldier approach. His usually clean-shaven face wore the brown lines of a growing beard as most had begun to. The chieftain thought it strange that they chose to do so when they had reached a warmer climate.

  He knew the man’s presence was a portent of danger and despair; he was the very same soldier who had approached him before the arrow assault on the Umordoc. The man had become a leader among the disciplinary soldiers, their conduit to the chieftain. He bowed curtly, his hands at his sides as he reached the powerfully built chieftain. “Lord Higald, there is something that you must see.”

  The chieftain nodded, realizing that perhaps he had slept late. That many of the disciplinary soldiers had not bothered to sleep at all. This made him feel as if he were betraying his own people. He made a mental note not to make the same mistake again.

  “Lead the way.”

  The cliff side was no more than a hundred feet from where the chieftain had chosen to erect a tent, but as he looked down he saw the cause for alarm. The mist had covered everything below them. Bulbous clouds that had settled showed evidence of writhing, dark shapes close to the cliff face. The chieftain watched in horror as they moved up through the clouds.

  “When did this begin?”

  The soldier was calm despite the circumstances. “No more than an hour ago. There was some motion in the cloud bank. Some of the sentries spotted dark shapes moving about.”

  “Umordoc cannot climb easily, unless they believe the mist extends as thickly up here as it is down there,” reasoned Higald. He looked back down into the mist. The number of dark forms had doubled.

  They had grown closer.

  “I want the women and children moved as far from this cliff face as possible. Leave a few disciplinary soldiers with them; have all the others report here. We need this done fast, understood?” whispered Higald.

  The possibility of the shadows hearing him grew with each passing second. Disappearing back into the thinner mists, the chieftain watched as more and more dark forms appeared beneath him. The cliff face was not a large structure by any means, but there was some distance to climb before they would reach the apex.

  Voices grew from the fog and soon the shadows had breached the cliffs and poured from its edge. Higald raised his arm, readying his troops. His broadsword was strapped along his back; the bow in his hands was pulled tight, an arrow already notched. There were hundreds now. The Fallen watched them from behind a small ridge of rocks they had pushed together as a shield.

  “Higald, chieftain of the Fallen, are you here? We did not find your body among the others,” called a voice from the shadowy forms within the mist.

  Higald crept out from behind the rock shield. The chieftain moved along the edge of the formation so his voice would not give away the placement of the other soldiers.

  “I am Higald of the Fallen. Who are you?” called back Higald as he let the tension drift from his bow and tucked the arrow back into the quiver along his back. He pulled his broadsword free with his right hand.

  “I am a friend,” returned the voice.

  The shadows had stopped.

  They were searching for him in the mist.

  Higald watched the ground beneath him as he nimbly stepped over tufts of root, hard stalks of plants that had survived the weather, and uneven patches of dirt and stone. He could see the shadows now.

  He was within several feet of the voice.

  “Does my friend have a name?” called Higald as he crept toward the form, his broadsword held at his side. He approached the figure, bringing his weapon around over his head as he prepared to split it in half as it turned and faced him.

  Arile’s grim smile was revealed. “I am called the White One by many, but the Ai’mun’hereun called me Arile and friend,” spoke the white hunter as the mighty chieftain restrained his swinging arm and looked at the man in shock.

  “I thought you were one of those beasts,” replied Higald as he pulled back his weapon.

  Arile pointed to the blade with a grin. “I am gathering as much. I did not think I made such a terrible impression the last time I saw you. See that you had some Umordoc trouble. There were none left when we came upon them. We saw the burnt bodies and figured this is where you would have gone.”

  “How did you know?” Higald replaced the blade on his back.

  “We followed the Umordoc tracks south of the Hall of Spines. We knew you were traveling in that direction and figured the Umordoc did as well,” chided Arile, his half-smile infectious as Higald smiled back and chuckled.

  The soldiers of the Fallen approached cautiously. The voice of the disciplinary soldier who had approached Higald filtered through the thin fog. “Lord Higald, is everything alright?”

  Higald turned at the sound of the soldier’s voice and smirked. He had forgotten about them for the moment. “Yes, they are not Umordoc. It is the Utiakth, our brothers.”

  *

  It took several hours for the Fallen to make their way off of the rock formation. Supplies had to be repackaged once more and the party made ready to move again. Introductions were made all around and Higald learned the name of the soldier who had taken charge.

  He was called Welker by the others.

  Higald found it strange that he had not learned his name before that, but in the last two decades there had been much with which he had lost touch. The procession pushed forward again, the ranks of the Fallen and Utiakth walking side by side. The trek to Linar took three days exactly, almost as long as it had taken Elcites and E’Malkai a lifetime before.

  When they arrived, it was not what they expected.

  Arile walked out ahead of the group.

  As they came up upon the stone building at the center of the minuscule township, they realized that they had expected much more from E’Malkai’s description. They had believed that all cities were as grandiose as Culouth.

  Arile raised a hand for them to stop.

  “What is the matter?” queried S’rean, his dark face wrapped in gray fabrics to fend off the wind. His piercing brown eyes watched the snow-covered terrain carefully.

  Arile had closed his eyes as he often did to speak to the winds. The air whipped around him, sending the loose ends of his coat into fits. Snow joined the dance. His right arm was outstretched, his fingers flexing in the winds. “There is death here, much death. There are none alive.”

  Higald stepped out in front of him.

  “This is where the Ai’mun’hereun had instruct
ed us to go.”

  Arile turned, his eyes opening. His hand fell to his side; the other one gripped his spear tightly. “He said that we could find shelter here. Our destination is to the south in a place called Illigard, where the Final War rages. The winds speak of a horrific war to the south, many have died. Many more will before enough blood has been spilled for the earth to be content.”

  S’rean looked grim as he walked toward the stone building and grasped the iron ring there. His hands were covered in gray gloves. He pulled it free of the ice that had bound it; the darkness within was warm and humid. The stench that greeted him was death, musty, spoiled death.

  “There is nothing for us here, Higald of the Fallen.”

  Higald looked into the darkness and could see bodies strewn against walls; some were slumped, others in heaps. “It would appear that the village of Linar will not be sheltering us this night or any other. The war is our calling.”

  S’rean nodded sadly as he stalked away from the odor of death. “Let us hope that we can be of aid there. Perhaps if we had been faster, what happened to these people might have been averted.”

  Higald looked south.

  The horizon was white, frozen, and not so different from what they had called home. “If we are meant to help, then we shall. If not, then we too shall drift into the wind to greet our ancestors.”

  Arile, S’rean, and Higald stood against the winds, their cloaks thrown all around them as the day faded once more. Night would soon envelope the gray soupiness of the sky. The Final War was one that encompassed all scopes of humanity, no matter how small or inconsequential they might seem.

  ⱷ

  Xi’iom

  The second trench was taken after three days of war. More than fifty thousand men died in a single battle. Culouth owned the lion’s share of casualties. The margin for affordable losses was far greater for Culouth than it was for Illigard.

  The armies of the empire encompassed several million.

  Illigard would be lucky to boast a tenth of that, already thousands of men and women had paid the price for freedom. Those who had survived the carnage of the second trench fell back to the third. There were only two strongholds more before the force of Culouth could walk up to the walls of Illigard.

  The third trench was designed more like a camp.

  Towers lined the front of the canal with soldiers stationed atop them. The First and Second Company of Illigard had fallen back to the heavily fortified third trench. They had named themselves the Forgotten Company, as most belonged to a mass of different divisions from Illigard. Some had defected to Illigard from the Stone Tower prior to the war.

  Commander Xi’iom had been placed in charge of the third trench. The other commanders would not allow the Field Marshal to man a trench. Elcites and Dean were present as field lieutenants. Each commanded a portion of the fifty-five thousand strong who were littered throughout the third trench.

  Kyien personally led half of the remaining land soldiers, something to the tune of near two million strong, in a march toward the third trench. In doing so he entrenched their pursuit of Illigard forces, creating more problems than it solved.

  Minefields doubled and tripled in placement close to the third trench. Scouts willing to gamble their lives had agreed to go outside of their perimeter defense to lay more mines in the path of the stalled Culouth forces.

  “Commander Xi’iom,” bellowed a young officer. His gray uniform was splattered with so much blood that the red stripe was barely discernible running from his shoulder down his pant leg. He saluted despite his disheveled appearance.

  Xi’iom looked far worse for the wear. He still wore the snow camouflage, but the blood splatters were not the only thing that littered his uniform.

  “What is it?” he barked.

  The sound of shouting had already begun to fill the air.

  The Culouth army was close now.

  The commander could feel it.

  The man’s hand shot down and Xi’iom watched his face and saw that he had a deep black gash from his lip to his right ear. The cold had protected it somewhat. Had this been a war in the heat, he would have been exhausted already. “I bring word from Illigard, sir.”

  Xi’iom did not bother to hide his confusion.

  “From Illigard? What could the Field Marshal want now?”

  “Perimeter scouts have witnessed a marching force of several million strong. Field Marshal T’elen wants Field Lieutenant Elcites to move around the south side of their forces, after the first wave, in order to trap them. She has instructed me to tell you that you are to take a legion to the north. Field Lieutenant Dean is charged to hold down the third trench until it becomes clear that it must be abandoned. He is to then join Field Lieutenant Elcites to the south for a continued assault there.”

  The soldier stood at attention as the commander absorbed the information. His dark eyes scanned nothing as he processed the words. He looked to the solider and dismissed him. Saluting once more, he then disappeared deeper into the trenches. Red-striped soldiers moved all about Xi’iom. As one passed close, he grasped the man by the arm and wrenched him away from his destination.

  “Sir,” the man stammered.

  Xi’iom turned to the man.

  “Bring me Field Lieutenants Elcites and Dean.”

  The man nodded and continued on in the direction that he had been going. Mumbled words followed him as he disappeared. The two field lieutenants appeared a few minutes later.

  Both appeared as stressed as Xi’iom felt.

  Elcites watched with his dark eyes, but said nothing.

  Xi’iom sighed before he began.

  “I have orders from Illigard, from the Field Marshal.”

  “And?” Dean’s impatience was evident.

  “She wants us to wait until after the initial wave of Culouth has been taken by the mines, and then break the division. I am to take a force north and flank them, and Elcites is supposed to do the same to the south. Kyien has marched more than two million soldiers against the third trench. He means to end the war here,” explained Xi’iom with a grim look.

  Both were unfazed by the news.

  It was a sound tactic.

  “What am I to do?” queried Dean.

  “You are to remain until the necessity to fall back presents itself, and then join Elcites to the south in hopes of forcing Culouth into a pincer position,” replied Xi’iom.

  “I suppose I might not be walking away from this one alive.”

  Xi’iom smiled thinly.

  “I don’t think any of us will walk away from this war.”

  *

  The Culouth army barreled through the stretch of minefields. Scattered body parts of their ranks were flung all over the snowy hills. A stained bog had begun to thaw beneath the trample of the armies over top. They pushed through until the hollow sounds of the mines were a dim memory.

  Thirteen thousand men were killed by the mines, and then twice that number was injured beyond use. Just outside of the mines were the pitfalls. Shards of metal protruded savagely from the ground beneath.

  Kyien drove them forward with a belligerence that was unbecoming of a wise commander. But they did so without thought, most falling atop each other and soon filling the thousands of holes that were littered in no discernible pattern. The holes filled with blood and dismembered parts until those behind them could walk right over them.

  The snow field was stained crimson once more.

  Xi’iom watched unflinchingly.

  War had made him numb.

  They were the enemy.

  He could debate the ethics of it once he had returned alive and the war was done. The stern commander stood along the northern flank, as he hoped Elcites was doing in the south, watching the wake of destruction left by Kyien’s ineptitude. Plasma rifle bursts exploded across the tainted fields; men fell left and right.

  The camouflaged ranks of Xi’iom’s unit darted north in a wide arc. Hoping their retreat had not been seen,
they moved far away from the battle. The sounds of the war echoed on the drifting wind and the commander shut out the sounds as they pressed forward. The lives of the soldiers in the third trench depended on how quickly they brought horror to the unsuspecting flank of the Culouth forces.

  ⱷ

  Dean

  Field Lieutenant Dean watched as the unit led by Elcites departed. Most of them were from the wall guard that he had led briefly while in Illigard. There were several Umordoc as well, all of whom brandished the red stripe of their allegiance proudly. Continuing forward, men tripped over the bodies of soldiers they had called friends and comrades.

  He looked to the north and saw that Xi’iom had been true to his word. Both had completed their instructions to the letter. If they were too slow, or did not create enough of an impact, Culouth would roll right over top of the third trench and force their way on to the fourth and fifth trenches, which were not nearly as well-fortified. Field Marshal T’elen had wanted to make the third trench the strongest point.

  From there, any who were forced to fall back would in theory not be facing as many men, and would merely be secondary cover as they trudged back to Illigard. There had just not been enough time, most of the other trenches suffered from the speed with which Kyien brought war.

  Dean barked orders to his men who stood their ground without question. In a matter of hours, the twenty-two thousand men who had remained were only four and half thousand strong. Culouth had erected makeshift fortifications in the portions of the canal they had taken by force. Dean carried his plasma rifle in one hand and a blood-soaked saber in the other.

  Neither would see an end to war anytime soon.

  “Fall back,” he roared as he drove the point of the blade into the ground and opened fire with the remaining core of the plasma rifle. The bluish bursts scarred the earth that it touched, searing the flesh of those who suffered beneath its heat.