The Path of the Fallen

by Dan O'Brien

  E’Malkai looked at the warrior from behind his cup and placed it on the table. Leaning back, he draped one arm over the back of the chair in comfort. “You knew my grandfather? Malkai Armen came here to the Outer Circle?”

  “He was the first to come from Terra, though not the first Armen,” replied Darien as he reached forward and poured something into his cup from another basin. The liquid was the dark color of amber. The youth watched him pour it into the glass and then met the stare of the much larger man, who only smiled. “I require something a bit stronger.”

  E’Malkai nodded, though he could not understand why a man would drink such foul liquids. He had his share in Illigard and felt the repercussions of it the next morning. The stink of the foul-smelling brew had tainted his breath the entire day.

  “What do you mean?”

  Darien sucked his teeth as he took a sip from his mug and then set it back down once more. “You already know that Terra is not the world your ancestors knew, but instead one that is linked to Dak’Tan and U’Mor, two of the vilest realms you can have the displeasure of visiting. My empire governed Dak’Tan for a thousand years. Though I withered, it lived on until another came: one who was far darker than I could ever imagine being. He brought machines, created creatures crafted of synthetics that could do things no mortal man could.”

  E’Malkai leaned forward. Bringing the cup to lips again, the water was as intoxicating as any drug to him. “You mean the Intelligence?”

  Darien nodded as he drank from the mug once more.

  “Dak’Tan was beautiful. The magicks were still very strong, but Emperor Me’Cheng thought that magicks, even a Creator’s power, was blasphemy and cast them from his realm as best he could. Me’Cheng was a wizard as well, a conjurer of the darkness. He could wield the antithesis of what was the power of the Original Creator. The power born of the Gagnion’Fe’rein, what your uncle, the one called Fe’rein, has tapped into; the darkness that vies for control of everything.”

  E’Malkai placed his cup down.

  “The Shaman warned me that there were dark forces within Dok’Turmel that would hunt me. Is that force the Gagnion’Fe’rein?”

  “That is like asking how the universe binds itself to space. In a manner of speaking, yes. There are minions of the darkness, of the Gagnion’Fe’rein, that would seek you out. Even if you are granted the power of the Original Creator, it can take centuries to master the power. Most of the pawns already in place that serve the darkness would be more than a match for you in the underworld; the power of the Original Creator cannot affect an After-person within the confines of the Dead Sands of the Light and Dark. The power of the Ai’mun’hereun is greatest within the Kien’jedai and here in the Outer Circle.”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t understand what it was that the Shaman warned me of,” replied E’Malkai, hanging his head in frustration. “There was a great deal of concern in his voice when he told me.”

  “Ti’ere’yuernen is a complicated man. I knew him before he became the Shaman of the Temple. He was a rather accomplished seer and conjurer of the Light in the Walled City. He fell on dark times, as did many of the mystics of old. He meant for you to be cautious of everything, much the way you were when you first met me. The city that I spoke of to the east is the great empire of Me’Cheng, the very same man who launched all of the realms into war. Even in death he commands a vast domain,” conceded Darien as he poured the amber fluid into his empty cup, filling it nearly to the top.

  “What were you called? What was your title?”

  His chest swelled in pride as he placed his fist over his heart. “I was Darien Warwielder, Blade Lord, and Protector of the Walled City and the Realm of the Forgotten. When I accepted the powers of Creation, and was corrupted by the darkness, I was called He Who Hunts His Countrymen, a title that still carries much shame,” replied the warrior king as he drained the entire cup and poured one more.

  “I did not mean to bring you sadness, Darien. Please forgive a young fool for his eagerness.”

  Darien smiled. “You are no longer so young, E’Malkai, son of Seth. You may look as if you are not ready for war, but you have seen much. The trek through Dok’Turmel has given you wisdom, aged you in a way that many will not be able to comprehend. The cliffs of Kien’jedai will show you that your journey has not been in vain.”

  They fell into silence, both drinking from their respective cups.

  There were crickets in the night, and for the first time the youth noticed that the sky had grown darker as time had passed. The Outer Circle was indeed devoid of the strange constraints that held Dok’Turmel in check. Darien had moved to the hearth and started a flame with no matches, but instead with the utterance of a few words beneath his breath.

  Together, they sat and enjoyed the warmth of the fire as the night cooled as it should with the seasons. The youth did not wish to pry, nor did he want to overstep his bounds with his questioning, but he could hold back no longer as the hours passed into the night.

  “When will I receive a guide, and when can I learn of the being that blocks the entrance into the Grove?” he queried, still staring into the dancing flames that crackled before the both of them.

  They sat next to each other as they watched the fire.

  Darien had taken a pipe from his shelves and puffed smoke from it, tiny clouds billowing from its tip. He grasped the bulk of the pipe and pulled it from his mouth. Blowing out a cloud of smoke as he did, he regarded the fire with a critical eye. He cleared his throat as he placed the pipe down and pushed himself from the chair.

  “We will rest the night. In the morning, I will bring the other guardians here. The other elders and I will confer and decide who shall lead you into the Kien’jedai on the night following our meeting.”

  E’Malkai mimicked the warrior king and pushed himself from his seat; he added a courtesy by pulling the chair back to the table. When he turned around, Darien held in his hands a bundle of sheets and a wool pillow that he handed to the youth.

  “Rest by the fire, child. You will need your rest.”

  E’Malkai accepted it with a nod.

  As Darien moved past him, he patted E’Malkai on the shoulder and disappeared into the darkness at the back of the house, a door shutting behind him with a haunting creak. The youth spread the blanket out in front of the fire, placing the wool pillow at the head of the sheets. Laying down on them, he wrapped himself tightly in their warmth and curled toward the fire.

  His stomach rumbled angrily, but he ignored it for Darien had said they would eat in the morning and he trusted man; though he did not know if it was wise to trust someone so steeped in death.

  He closed his eyes, thoughts of his father filling his mind. Soon the sounds of the hearth lulled him into a deep slumber: the first in longer than even his eternal memory could recall.

  ⱷ

  T’elen

  The siege of the Eddies had ended in a rather abrupt sequence of events. T’elen had been correct in her hunch. They arrived just as the ravenous forces of the tundra people ripped through the ranks of Culouth soldiers as if they had showed up on the battlefield unarmed and blindfolded. Between the Illigard forces and the tundra people, the Culouth army had been defeated.

  Kyien sat before T’elen in front of the entrance to the Eddies. His face was swollen and purple in places from where he had been beaten, or perhaps thrown aside. His pale complexion was more ashen than usual.

  He struggled to keep his composure by sucking on his lip occasionally, only to be met by the coppery taste of his blood. A stab wound near his hip had yet to be patched, and would not likely be tended to as neither Illigard nor Culouth was in the habit of giving aid to the enemy.

  T’elen stood in front of him, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, the blood of enemies slain still splattered across her elegant features. Even in the swell of battle, she maintained the air of a queen; it was this regal quality that defined a superior officer. She paced in front of him, watching
as he struggled against his bonds and glared at her.

  “We have come a long way, you and I. It is truly a pity that I could not slit M’iordi’s throat as well. At least you came here to fight. I wonder if he is curled up in front of a warm fire as you sit in the cold snow.”

  He looked away, swallowing despite the dryness and blood that ached in his throat. Turning to her, he spit on her uniform. The blood and saliva dripped against the crimson streak that marked her as an officer of Illigard.

  “More will come and your fur-clad barbarians will fare far worse against cavalry out in the open,” he spat. The hatred in his voice was thick and coarse.

  Higald moved alongside T’elen.

  The pale chieftain regarded the man with disdain.

  Pointing at him, he spoke. The pitch drew the High Marshal’s attention. “You are a coward. The Ai’mun’hereun will rain fire down upon those who oppose him.”

  Kyien glared at the tundra chieftain.

  The only word he could understand was the name for the Believer. Arile was the only one among the tundra people who could speak a common tongue. He sauntered forward, his heavy gaze falling on Kyien.

  “We should kill him and move on. E’Malkai of the South said that the tundra people will play a part in the Final War,” Arile echoed as he grinned at the High Marshal, his sparkling eyes haunting. “I do not believe that part is to watch over the enemy.”

  T’elen looked at the broad build of the white hunter and nodded. “There will be much death if we do find out what they plan to do,” she reasoned much to the chagrin of Kyien, who smiled wickedly.

  “Do you really believe that I will tell you anything? Don’t be a fool. There is much more here at stake than Culouth. The preservation of the Intelligence is the sole purpose of that damnable prison,” he returned, struggling against his bonds for added effect.

  All the while, he maintained his glower.

  T’elen looked away and shook her head.

  “I figured you wouldn’t say anything.”

  Kyien was less than a foot from the edge of the cliff side. The rolling ring of fog below covered the Culouth encampment. She walked toward him, placing her boot on his chest; the melting snow and blood ebbed on his uniform.

  He turned away at the smell.

  “To be honest, I just wanted to see you squirm for all the damage you have done. I never expected you to tell me anything of real value.”

  Kyien shifted his eyes from man to man nervously. “See, you aren’t so stupid after all. Where do we go from here?” he asked with a sense of apprehension.

  He feared the hollow eyes that looked back at him.

  Kyien watched with horror.

  T’elen looked down, the loose strands of her hair falling forward over her blood-stained face. She sent him over the edge with a simple push, and then called after his falling figure, “You go down.”

  He knew what was happening and tried to push up with his legs to stand, but it all happened to fast. The scream that was trapped in his throat echoed as he saw the fog spiraling around his vision. His mind reeled as the cold air gripped his chest, knocking his breath from his lungs.

  Kyien knew that death was upon him, dancing in his eyes on wings of darkness as he fell. There was the fear of the unknown. Serving Culouth was like being the right hand of evil, and now it no longer felt as righteous as it once had. Dok’Turmel would hold no secrets for a man so tainted.

  ⱷ

  Pierce

  The soldiers heard the bloodcurdling scream long before they saw the body of the late High Marshal Kyien plunge through the gray, cold fog that hung just above their heads. The camp had been pushed back from the edge of the cliff side, all except for the archers who, even as the High Marshal fell, were idly sitting cross-legged at the base.

  Their heads lifted in unison as the hurtling body of their leader came screaming down upon them like a boulder from above. The body whistled as it wove toward the ground, the impact creating a crater in the midst of the mud-stained cards that the archers had been using for a hand of ihuen.

  Pierce walked toward the mangled body of the man who had made the Final War his own personal machine of death. There would be no remorse for Kyien among his men. He had been a cruel dictator on the field, and was even less personable in his most private moments.

  The liaison just stared as the soldiers around him shuffled uncomfortably. It was dishonorable to be bound as the High Marshall was, but upon Kyien’s death Pierce had become the ranking officer. Though not a military man, he was given authority from M’iordi and the Culouth Commerce.

  A soldier cleared his throat, his dark brown hair matted beneath the fabric mask he wore over his face. Not meeting Pierce’s gaze, he continued to stare forward at the body; half of Kyien was buried in snow and one of his legs jutted out like a rotten branch from a tree stump.

  “What do we do now?” the soldier asked.

  Pierce could feel a laugh rising in his throat.

  He hated Kyien.

  That was really not the correct phrasing; he abhorred what the man was capable of, the extent to which he would go to gain control. Pierce could not fault Kyien for he, as well, went to great lengths to control those who were necessary. For the man to have died so easily, and obviously not on his own terms, brought joy to the liaison. “We are done here,” began Pierce, not knowing the man’s rank.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Richke, sir.”

  Pierce smiled. “Lieutenant Colonel, we are mounting up and marching back to the Stone Tower. This siege is done,” he answered.

  The soldier looked at him oddly. The words Pierce had spoken ran contrary to anything he would have believed to be the High Marshal’s dying wishes. “Aide Pierce,” began the soldier slowly, but Pierce wheeled on him, his features formed into an icy glare; the meaning behind it was undeniable. Kyien had gone to great lengths to call the liaison aide at every turn.

  The soldiers had become accustomed to hearing it.

  “Pardon me, Lord Pierce, would it not be prudent to pursue those in the Eddies? Perhaps their numbers have dwindled? Surely they would not be able to defend themselves from the host collected on this field.”

  Pierce clucked his tongue and stared back at Kyien’s lifeless body. Snow flickered over them. Thick, wet splotches had begun to cover what remained of the High Marshal.

  “We will withdraw from here and return to the Stone Tower. Lord M’iordi is in charge now,” answered Pierce. His dead tone possessed a lingering sense of authority. “Bring me a mount immediately. I wish to leave this place.”

  The soldier regarded Pierce in silence and then bowed before turning back to the men. Pierce stood there for some time watching the body of the High Marshal. The place where he had landed melted from the dead heat that radiated from the corpse.

  He turned his eyes to the fog above them.

  Pierce could feel T’elen’s burning gaze staring back down at him, taunting him to storm the Eddies and face the same fate that Kyien had been dealt. A white mare was brought to him by a youthful Culouth soldier, his yellow stripe stained crimson.

  He held the reins as Pierce climbed into the saddle.

  Pierce nodded to the man as he dug his boot into the stirrup and swung his other leg over the flank of the beast. He wrenched the reins away from the soldier and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Sitting tall on the mare, he watched the bulbous wraps of the clouds weave their way along the rocky side of the cliffs.

  He waited for some time.

  Holding an invisible gaze with a foe that was beyond reach, he turned back into the encampment. The mark of Culouth on the wastelands was slowly disappearing.

  ⱷ

  T’elen

  T’elen had looked on without emotion as the dying screams of the High Marshal faded into the fog below her. She knew the man had deserved much worse, but still felt a pang of sorrow. It was a strange feeling. Arile stood beside her, as did Higald. In the distance, S’rean and Elcites watched as bodie
s were pulled from the tunnel of the first level of the Eddies. Arile and Higald spoke in hushed tones; their voices were gentle enough despite the language barrier.

  It still caused T’elen to cock her head to the side. “What is that you are discussing so quietly with one another?” she called back, catching Arile’s attention mid-sentence.

  He held a hand up to Higald and nodded, closing his eyes as he did so. His understanding of the Culouth language was passable, though he stumbled at times. “We––speaking of where the mother is? Where is the one called Leane,” he uttered slowly.

  T’elen nodded and turned away from the cliff, watching the both of them from underneath a tired gaze. “She is at Illigard, a hundred miles from here, at least. We will return there soon,” she answered with a labored sigh.

  Higald waited patiently as Arile conferred with him in Fallen. He then looked to T’elen, speaking rapidly as Arile nodded along, waiting until he was finished. Arile tilted his head as the Fallen chieftain finished and then motioned with his hands for the pale lord to wait.

  “He wants you to know that he is Higald, chieftain of the Fallen, and he remembers the Reverent Mother. She was partnered to Seth Armen, son of Evan, before they were banished. He considers it an honor to see her again.”

  T’elen moved toward them from atop the slightly raised rock face from which she had kicked the High Marshal. “Why is she called the Reverent Mother?” queried T’elen.

  Arile did not confer with Higald, but instead motioned all around him in a sweeping gesture. “She is mother to the vessel of the Ai’mun’hereun and is placed above all other women and mothers. She birthed the child of the Light,” he answered, bringing his hands back down to his sides as he finished.

  T’elen watched them both as Higald touched Arile’s shoulder. He began to speak once more and then pointed to the Field Marshal, thudding his chest with vigor.