by Dan O'Brien
E’Malkai was surprised by her words.
He stumbled for the proper response.
She turned and faced him. A stream of tears riddled either cheek. Her fearful gaze hurt the youth, made him feel sorrow despite the anguish in his mind.
“I should not have done that, as I should not have spoken to you as I did when we crashed. I do not know why I did those things. You make me feel as if I need to be passionate, to take chances.”
Mete moved closer to them.
His much taller frame overshadowed them both.
E’Malkai turned to the warrior and saw that he, too, was apprehensive. They were deeply religious in a way that E’Malkai could not understand. He was their messiah. “If I am what you believe, then it is my word that you would fear, yes?”
They both nodded.
“Then I say we move forward because you have done nothing wrong. Free will is the right of every human being. You made choices and that is no more than I could ask of you, whether or not I am what you believe me to be,” he replied.
Arivene reached out and touched his shoulder.
He turned and looked at her for a moment.
“I am sorry for any harm I have caused you,” she whispered.
He tilted his head as if to nod. “I accept your apology, but we must reach the Shaman. That is our purpose here.”
E’Malkai continued forward.
The caverns were warm, though not oppressively hot as the desert had been; instead, they were muggy and damp. The walls were slick to the touch and moss grew as it had in the tunnels of the Fallen. Sharpened stalactites hung from the ceilings. They resembled the rows of some monster’s enormous jaws that threatened to consume them as they lost themselves within its seemingly interminable halls.
Minutes passed into hours.
The winding tunnels seemed to extend forever. The ground beneath them showed the prints of life, small rodents and serpents. The tracks were muddled; the ground was damp and the air oppressive.
The grade of the terrain rose and fell like the breath that escaped them; sweat poured from their bodies, though that was quickly remedied as layers were shed and garments removed. E’Malkai had torn the wraps from his torso and shed the coats and cloaks he had worn upon the tundra. His bare chest had not lost the tan that he had acquired living within the artificial environment of Culouth. His dark hair fell over his shoulders, more than twice as long as it had been. Unrestrained, it flew wild and abandoned; wavy in some places, straight in others.
Mete had tied his shirt around his waist. His barrel chest was heavily muscled. Arivene had pulled the blouse that she wore up under her breasts, her bare belly showing. She pulled free the ends of the leggings that she had been forced to wear within the Fallen and instead wore thin pants that breathed in the caverns. The end they sought was an abrupt one. Born from the scattered rock formation was the mouth of another cave, one that seemed inconsistent with the others.
The opening was built, not made from the movement of the earth. It had been chiseled into an entrance that was large enough to allow Mete to enter without ducking.
There was no door, only a dark opening.
E’Malkai approached it first, running his hands over the sides of the doorframe. There were markings, ancient words. “This must be the keep of the Shaman,” he mumbled.
Arivene was mesmerized by the appearance of the mystical opening. “How can you be sure? Can you read the lettering around the outside?”
E’Malkai nodded. “Some of it. It is an ancient script much like everything else that is connected to the myth of the Ai’mun’hereun. The things I found in the Fallen, as well as the vessel, were all variations of the same language––some just older than others. This is far older than any of them. It says something about the home of the Ti’ere’yuernen, the Shaman in the tongue of the Fallen. But the script itself reads as if it were a very complicated Culouth dialect.”
Darkness whirled as they watched veins of light infect the shadow. It expanded then, as if it opened from within, until the edges of the shadow were no more and it was only a doorway of light.
“By the Believer,” whispered Arivene, bringing her hand up to shield her eyes. A figure materialized from within the light. His dark wavy hair was shoulder length and pulled back into a ponytail. His olive skin shimmered as he emerged from the light. The ring of beads around his wrist were bleached and polished; the tunic he wore was dark blue. A dark cloak worn outside of it hid the musculature of his frame.
“Son of Seth, I have been waiting for you,” he spoke.
The siblings simply stared.
“I have come for you, Ti’ere’yuernen,” replied the youth, bowing at his waist. He watched the Shaman with a certain level of interest.
The Shaman reached out and touched E’Malkai’s back. “You must be worn from your travels,” he began and then looked to the siblings, continuing, “All of you.”
Arivene continued to stare as she spoke.
“Where are we? What is this place?”
The Shaman motioned for E’Malkai to rise and crossed his hands beneath the folds of his cloak. “The Desert of the Forgotten serves as gateway between what was once Dak’Tan and what is Terra. There is only such a need because the Gagnion’Fe’rein chooses to jump from plane to plane.”
Mete wrinkled his nose; he did not understand.
“This place is not of this world?” he queried with a heavy tone.
The Shaman nodded. “Yes, there are many questions that you have. Please come inside and I will answer them.” He turned to walk back through the doorway of light whence he came, but paused as none of them followed him.
“There are more answers that I require before I walk through that door,” spoke E’Malkai, standing his ground.
The siblings were in awe, but stood firm behind the youth. The Shaman turned and smirked tightly, nodding his head as he walked back toward them.
“You do not trust me?” he queried with an arched eyebrow.
Mete stammered as he spoke. “It is not that…”
The youth interrupted him. “It is exactly that. We have come too far to be led astray so close to what we seek. If you are the Shaman, then I apologize now for the inconvenience. We must be certain of what you are before we step into another unknown.”
The Shaman chuckled and pulled his hands from inside the sleeves of his cloak. “That is wise of you. If you had been too eager, then perhaps you would not have been as strong as was believed. Your hesitation is an indication that you do not walk blindly into what you must do,” he answered with a dark smile.
E’Malkai nodded.
“What is this place?” he asked.
The Shaman paced, his hands gesturing to the walls.
“This is but a pocket in the universe. It is a place just this side of Dok’Turmel, but not on Terra, U’Mor, or Dak’Tan. It isn’t really a place at all as much as it is home to an ancient force that cannot be destroyed, or buried as many that wield the darkness would hope.”
E’Malkai nodded. “That is why the Desert of the Forgotten is never in the same place. It shifts because it is not bound to this reality.”
The Shaman pointed at the youth emphatically.
“Exactly. This is just another of a thousand realities in which the darkness and Light fight. There is no name for this place. Some call it the birthplace of the ancient power, or the Temple of the Shaman, but there truly is no name for it. It does not exist, in the metaphorical sense, and therefore it does not merit a name,” spoke the Shaman as he continued to pace, running his hands over the rocky walls.
E’Malkai started to speak, but stopped.
Turning with a grin on his face, the Shaman looked at E’Malkai. “They need to hear your question as well as the answer, son of Seth.”
The youth nodded. “Are we on Earth?”
The Shaman looked to the siblings.
Once again, shock and disbelief were their only responses.
“That is a
question that many who have found this place have asked. Though there were few who already knew the answer before they walked in here.”
E’Malkai opened his mouth to protest, but he knew.
The Shaman eyed him before he spoke again.
“What you ask is true. The Earth that your people remember is just that: a memory. Terra is an artificial place, a world that was not meant to be inhabitable. But when the scavengers and remnants of the human race crashed here, they found that it was more than an image of their home world. Rites and histories were passed down as if nothing had happened; that the Umordoc wars and the coming of the Intelligence to Earth had happened within the course of natural human history.” They were mesmerized by his words, of the history of a world long forgotten. “The coming of the Intelligence happened twice. The first time was when Earth was taken and stripped, and then again when a piece of what had first attacked mankind came with the humans to Terra and carried through with its original protocol: assimilation and destruction.”
E’Malkai was the first to speak. “Then the history recorded aboard the Galaxy VII was correct. We have been deceived.”
Arivene was looking down throughout the exchange.
“It was all lies.”
Mete waved his hand dismissively. “What about the Believer and the Fallen? What about everything we have worked toward and believed in for generations? Was that all lies as well?”
The Shaman moved toward the doorway once more. “I’m afraid so––tailored histories to serve a purpose: to keep humanity from becoming as vain as it had been when the Intelligence first came to Earth, when your kind was wiped clean of the planet on which it was spawned.”
There was a stunned silence. The words of the Shaman were like a fantastic weight placed on their minds that they could not shed. Generations of lies to cover something that affected them so profoundly was not easily accepted.
“Then I am not the Believer,” sighed E’Malkai in relief.
The Shaman looked at him.
There was no mirth in the stare he leveled at the youth.
“The Believer was a name given to something much more powerful, something that the Fallen could never understand. The essence of the Ai’mun’hereun is what calls out to you; that is what drew you here. Within Dok’Turmel there is the energy that you seek, the power that can break this planet or create it anew. You know of the one called Fe’rein. You have seen what happens when the power is taken by those of the darkness. He did not journey through Dok’Turmel.” The Shaman’s voice trailed off and he paced away from the youth once again.
“I thought that the power of the Original Creator was trapped within Dok’Turmel?” challenged E’Malkai.
The Shaman nodded, but did not turn. His voice echoed in the chambers. “The power that he took did not require him to travel into Dok’Turmel.”
E’Malkai stalked toward him, past the siblings.
“I do not understand.”
The Shaman turned, his eyes glowing as he watched the youth. “That is something that I cannot explain to you. The answers are within Dok’Turmel.” He sauntered back and stood before the revolving light of the doorway, looking at them all. “It would be best for all of you if you rested before undertaking the journey into Dok’Turmel.”
As they stepped through the doorway, the light faded to darkness. Their bodies melted into the liquid-like substance that was created by the door. The earth stilled and the rocky cavern disappeared. The desert and the sphere that had brought them there dissolved into nothing––absorbed by the cold surroundings. They had stepped from one reality into another; one they hoped would offer salvation.
ⱷ
T’elen
Winter proved a sluggish companion for T’elen and the twenty-five thousand men and women she led from Illigard out past the abandoned fourth trench. They reached the trench in less than a day, though only because the weather steadied for a time. Finding it barren, it was as if there had not been a battle at all.
The fourth trench served as the final line of defense, the last barrier before Culouth could attack Illigard without pause. T’elen stalked out ahead of the lines of soldiers, a dirtied white cloak hung over her body. Her face was wrapped so that only her eyes peeked out. The burst of her hilt extended just behind her head and dark snow-stained glasses clung tightly to her face.
A broad-shouldered solider stood alongside her.
Soldiers of Illigard did not wear rank insignia; T’elen detested such vanities. As such, he was known only as lieutenant through word-of-mouth. His position was founded on respect, not designation. He was similarly dressed, though his fatigues were more faded; splotches of pure darkness marred the fabrics.
“Lady T’elen, this place is wrong,” he whispered.
His hoarse voice lingered on the howling winds.
T’elen nodded. Her face was grim buried beneath the wraps that shielded her face. “It appears as though there was never anyone here, ever.”
The gales responded, kicking snow and particles of ice. Slicing through the air like broken glass, they collided against the wooden towers of the battlefield.
The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably, bringing his rifle around into his hands. He scanned the exterior of the undisturbed ridge. “There were thirty thousand men here only days ago, and now nothing. Vanished as if into thin air,” he trailed off as he marveled at the barren spectacle.
T’elen moved forward and touched the ground, rubbing the snow between her fingertips before brushing her hand against her leg. She ran up the side of the trench, clawing at the ground until she found herself on the other side. The lieutenant followed. Her sudden movement drew him forward––if only to indulge his curiosity.
Once she crested the trench, she saw what had happened to the company that was occupying the trenches. The answer was splattered across the frozen fields: bloody stains soaked deep into the cold reserves of the winter. There were dark lines of figures just over the horizon and farther into the distance. The Field Marshal, being gifted with abnormally good sight, saw exactly what had laid waste to the Illigard soldiers: Umordoc.
“Lieutenant,” she snapped.
The song of her blade leaving its sheath accompanied her commanding tone. The broad-shouldered soldier pulled himself over the lip of the trench and gawked at the goye of Umordoc a thousand strong standing just beyond the ridge.
“By the…” he murmured.
T’elen looked at him sharply, gripping the blade in her hand. “Get those men up here now,” she ordered and started to stalk forward.
She crunched ice and snow alike beneath her march.
He continued to stare forward.
She struck him for his reticence. The back of her hand collided against his chest, lifting him off the ground and setting him upon his back. He looked at her wildly; the vein in his head bulged as the wraps fell from his face.
“Of course, Lady T’elen.”
T’elen did not watch him go.
The long line of Umordoc turned back toward the Field Marshal. They had picked up her scent; the smell of fresh meat was far too enticing for Umordoc warriors who had already killed that day.
The two forces met as one on the battlefield.
Swords sung and rifles sizzled flesh.
The smell of death overwhelmed them; the terrors and pleasures of violence surged through their veins. T’elen was as one with her blade, slashing and spinning, driving and parrying.
Death smiled through her as she fought.
A thousand Umordoc were wiped clean from a field of soiled snow; yet the rage was unabated. There would be more bloodletting before this war saw an end.
T’elen stood alone.
The men of her company finished what they had started: some stabbed the dead bodies of the Umordoc, splattering their features with the blood of their enemies; some finished those who were still alive. Having never seen such violence, a few fell on their own weapons.
They found they had no taste
for it.
The leader of Illigard stood at the center of massacre and stared far off into the distance at the bodies of Umordoc and men alike. They would become memories of a war that had scarred a realm so completely. She looked farther to the east, to where Elcites stood waiting for her help; perhaps they had been able to push the Culouth force back, but tens of thousands against millions did not seem feasible. She pushed the thoughts from her mind. She had men who needed her help, and T’elen would die fighting before she would let them down.
ⱷ
E’Malkai
E’Malkai awoke suddenly from a deep sleep; his dreams forgotten as his mind drifted back to reality. But for a moment he felt as if he were still dreaming. He rolled onto his back and a bright white sphere of light stared back.
The ceiling and walls were lined with globes of swimming liquid. The Shaman had explained that within these spheres of energy all the power of the universe was locked away without a key.
“Locked away without a key,” murmured the youth as he placed his hands behind his head. The siblings had been given appropriate accommodations: beds and food.
E’Malkai had declined both.
The Shaman’s voice surprised him. “All that power and no way to retrieve it. Many have tried. Many of my predecessors have tried to free that power only to be met with failure and expulsion from this place.”
The Shaman had donned a burgundy short-sleeve shirt. The tailored satin fabric seemed to shimmer as he lowered himself into a cross-legged position beside the youth.
E’Malkai did not turn to face him, but instead remained on his back while the Shaman faced the other direction. “Who would wish for such power?”
The Shaman smiled, though the youth could not see it.
“Spoken like someone who should wield such a charge.”
E’Malkai craned his neck to see the Shaman.
“I do not want to be a god. I never asked to be what I am.”
“Nor did the darkness ask for the coming of the Light, but it happened and there is nothing that can be done to change that. Just as there is nothing that can be done to make you anything other than what you are,” echoed the Shaman as he watched the globes collide with one another. The pale glow changed from red to orange, and then to darkness. Once more it drifted to a bright light, always changing, unperturbed by the will of the sentient.
