The Vitalis Chronicles: White Shores

by Jay Swanson

“Well, not directly no. But I was the one giving the orders, and responsibility falls on me where the actions of my men are concerned so... yes. I suppose I did kill your family.”

  Ardin's shoulders grew tense as he felt his body start to shake. His hand formed a tight fist around the hilt of his father's broken saber as he subconsciously gritted his teeth.

  “Why?”

  “Out of all the questions you could ask–”

  “WHY?!”

  “I'm looking for someone, a girl who's been evading justice for quite some time. She's been kept safe in your village for a while now, and unfortunately for your little town and family the consequence for not giving her up to me was... well, obvious by now I should imagine.”

  Ardin lunged forward, bringing the broken blade around and thrusting it towards the figure. “You filthy son of a whore!”

  He yelled as the figure wavered and disappeared, his full weight carrying him face first into the gray coated grass beyond. His head hit something hard, leaving his ears ringing. The figure was gone, the doubt as to whether or not it had ever been there briefly crossed Ardin's mind as he tried to get up.

  His body felt too heavy and he collapsed back to the ground sending up a small cloud of light gray dust that settled around him as he drifted off into sleep.

  “WELL.” POMPIDUS MERODACH stared out over the plains north of Elandir from his office. “What of it?”

  A green lieutenant stood in the doorway at attention, his tepid nature threatening to spill onto the floor. He cleared his throat, uncertain of how to proceed with the bad news he had been given to bear. To the Mayor himself no less.

  “Sir.” He straightened his collar nervously and pulled his spine even straighter than it had been, which, considering how fresh he was from the academy, was considerably straight. “It appears the entire battalion is dead, sir.”

  Merodach didn't respond. He simply stood in cold silence as the sun began to set to his left. He took a long draw on his cigar, not wanting it to go out but having lost his taste for it almost entirely.

  “All of them?”

  “Well, sir, some of the rearguard made it out alive. It seems they retreated when the sh- I mean when things started to go poorly, sir.”

  “Well the shit did hit the fan, Lieutenant. No point sugar coating it. Any news of Silvers?”

  “The general was last seen headed east, sir.”

  Merodach dropped his cigar, reacting too late to grab it and save his carpet the stain it received. He picked it up and calmly stood, composing himself before turning.

  “You're certain of that, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, he was the one who killed the rearguard.”

  The lieutenant's eyes were wide as ashtrays. If he wasn't so self conscious of being alone in the presence of the Mayor, Merodach was certain the kid would be scanning the room for Silvers as they stood there. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't blame the boy.

  “And the Witch? We're certain she's dead.”

  “Sir.”

  “Fine.”

  He turned back to the wall of windows behind his desk and stared out over the fields. The sun glistened off the river through the ships docked on the Elandris. The sparkling light seemed to dance between the large air circulation units below him. They sat on the peninsular ledge that jutted out from the wall twenty forty beyond. The sides of it ran straight down until it was enveloped in the gently sloping wall beneath.

  He felt secure up here, and he didn't plan on leaving his secluded tower until Silvers had been contained. How he had managed to kill an entire battalion on his own, with or without the help of the Witch, was beyond Merodach.

  The lieutenant shifted uneasily in the doorway, not certain if he was permitted to leave. After a few minutes he cleared his throat softly.

  “You're still here?”

  “Sir.”

  “Go find Brutus and send him up,” Merodach didn't break his stare away from the Northern Range.

  “Sir.”

  “That is all, Lieutenant.”

  The young man wheeled about and marched out of the room. Merodach didn't give him another thought as he rolled the possible scenarios around in his mind. Containing this would be impossible. It should be easier if he told the people the general had gone mad and killed his own men with the aid of the Witch. Especially if it was half true. Taking control of the army with Silvers still alive, however, would be another matter.

  “Sir.”

  “Get in here Brutus, damn your eyes!” The fat Mayor whipped around and slammed his hands on his expansive desk.

  “Sir?” Brutus walked into the room and came to attention under the rage of his master.

  “Your incompetence has landed us in deeper water than I care to take measure of! Do you realize how impossible our situation is now?”

  “Sir, let me explain–”

  “There's nothing to explain, you idiot!” Spit flew from the Mayor's pudgy face as it flushed red. “You sent a group of monkeys up there to do one thing, to kill one man, and instead I lose an entire battalion and have absolutely no way of explaining it away!”

  Brutus exhaled stiffly through his nose, setting his jaw and keeping his calm. He thought of all the ways he had been subjugated to this weasel. One day... one day his time would come. Then all of this would change.

  “Sir it's not possible that he could pull that off.”

  “Why do you think I have no way of talking my way out of it? Normally we could lie our way out of something like this, but the one time the truth lines up beautifully to our cause it's too extraordinary for anyone to believe!”

  “Why would we tell the truth?”

  “Not the whole truth! Not the fact that you were going to have him killed! Just that he killed his own men. We'll have to tie him to that accursed Witch somehow, draw a link and paint him in league with her.”

  “Well, sir, the people hate the Magi so it shouldn't be too hard. Besides, he did burn Levanton.”

  “He what?”

  “Levanton, sir. He killed every villager and burned it to the ground.”

  “You mean he actually used the troops to massacre a village under our protection?”

  “Yes sir, he did.”

  “That's perfect!” Merodach threw his hands in the air and did a little twirl. His belly collided with the back of his chair and sent it rolling across the room.

  “Sir?”

  “That, my friend, is God's providence in action!”

  “I don't understand, sir. It's practically genocide, not something to celebrate.”

  “Yes yes, of course. But don't you see?” the Mayor slowly swept his hand in front of his face as if wiping the grime off a filthy window. “He's handed us all that we need. He was enchanted, driven mad by the Witch! Yes! I can see it now; she took the general and his men under her control and drove them to kill their own countrymen.”

  Brutus just stared as his master grew increasingly excited. The thought of such treachery made him sick; how it could please his superior was mind boggling.

  “And then, when they tried to break the spell, she turned them on themselves! They killed each other, but not before setting off their charges and leveling the compound!”

  “Sir,” Brutus stepped forward, concern crossing his square features. “The people will never buy it, Silvers was too well loved.”

  “Silvers was a bastard, Flavian. We both know that. We just need to help the people see it too. Put him up on display as the traitor he was.”

  “It'll be hard to paint that kind of picture, sir. He was clean as fresh snowfall.”

  “This will change all of that, Flavian. He's handed us his own death warrant; all it needs is a little spin. It will catch fire, you'll see.”

  Hell, this could actually pass with the populace.

  “When you think of it, in a way, we're lucky this happened the way it did.” Merodach walked over to a small mahogany table where he uncorked his favorite whiskey and poured himself a
glass. “It's a miracle the Witch's magic didn't win them over and send them down to try and kill us!”

  This is a day for celebration, the Mayor thought to himself.

  “This is a day for mourning, my dear General. Many lives have been lost. This will forever be a day to remember the victims of the last of the witches.”

  And forever a monumental milestone on the road to my empire.

  “Sir,” the big general saluted the proclamation. “What about Silvers, sir?”

  Merodach's stomach twisted at the thought. That was a very large, very problematic loose end that would need tying up. And then a thought perked him right back up.

  “You know that little place our men followed him to last year?”

  “The cottage in the foothills, sir?”

  “I believe his mistress and their son still reside there, do they not?”

  “Yeah, last we knew they hadn't moved.”

  “If you don't find him there you can certainly send him a message.”

  Brutus grinned, “I do enjoy sending good messages, sir.”

  “I know you do, Flavian,” Merodach walked over to the westerly wall of windows and watched as the sun finally set over the horizon to his left. “Go teach that bastard just how we feel about treason and murder.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  Brutus clicked his heels to attention, wheeled about, and walked out of the room.

  Merodach sipped the last of his whiskey as the large lights along the top of the wall below him began to flicker on. He could salvage this yet. With a little superstition spread and some luck thrown in he could have everyone in the Twelve Cities behind him and hunting Silvers. Darkness enshrouded the room, leaving the Mayor to ponder his equally grim plot.

  NINE

  ARDIN STUMBLED DOWN the path that ran through the center of the Cave. The chain-link fence that surrounded the compound lay flat in every direction. He didn't really notice. The only thing getting through his pounding headache was the stinging burn of his chapped lips. It seemed forever since he had anything to drink. He wandered past bodies as he made his way south of the Cave: some charred, some lying peacefully. The trees closed in as he began to leave the clearing.

  “Stop right there!” came a trembling voice from the tree line.

  Ardin obeyed the voice, squinting to see into the shadows. The sun had reached its zenith before he had woken up, and he was having a difficult time focusing as it was.

  “Who... who are you?” the voice persisted.

  Ardin could make out the muffled rattle of a rifle against tactical gear

  “I'm Ardin... Who are you?”

  He put his hand up to block the sun.

  “Hold it right there! Don't you move, don't fucking move!”

  “Alright, alright” Ardin raised his hands palms out. “Just can't see anything in this light.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Whose side am I on?” Ardin rolled the question around in his head as if gauging the weight and feel of a foreign object.

  “That's what I said! Whose side are you on, damnit! And don't lie, I'll know. I'll know if you're lying.”

  Ardin could make out the soldier's form now in the brush, rifle pointing right at his chest as he'd suspected. A thought clawed at the back of his mind, quiet but ruthless.

  “I'm on your side.”

  “Oh, oh yeah? Very funny, you little shit! You don't even know whose side I'm on!”

  “Sure I do.” Ardin put his hand over his eyes again.“You're on their side.” He pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb at the bodies strewn about the compound.

  “Yeah? So? Good guess. How do I know you're on our side?”

  “Well, really.” Ardin strode slowly forward. “It's just your side now if you think about it.”

  The thought was materializing, taking form in his brain like a maggot burrowing into a hunk of rotten meat. He tried to shake it free.

  “Hey now! No funny stuff! Stop... stop moving damnit!”

  Ardin stopped, hands back in the air. “I know, for example, that your commander isn't who he said he was. Or at least, who he appeared to be.”

  “Yeah! So?”

  “I also know he betrayed you and killed all of your friends.”

  Ardin started slowly forward again, inching towards the shade and the figure hidden there. What am I doing? He could hear himself thinking as if trapped and watching everything unfold from somewhere else.

  “Well yeah, but... ok? So how do I know you're on my side? That's what I want to know! That's what I'm getting at!”

  “Ok, ok.” Arden slowed back to a halt as the gun jumped out at him emphasizing every syllable. “Because, that man killed my family.”

  “He did?”

  “Oh yes.” Ardin started forward again, now only a few feet away.

  It was as if he were being compelled forward. He felt terrified and in complete control all at once.

  “He killed every last one of them, and my friends, just like yours.”

  “So...” The soldier was attempting to put everything together.

  The sound of him working through it was a nice change from the trigger-happy stress that had filled his voice a moment before.

  “You're after him too?”

  Ardin was standing just a foot from the barrel of the gun; he could clearly make out the soldier now. His face was framed by matted blonde hair; he hardly looked older than Ardin.

  “Yes, and everyone that had a hand in it.”

  “Like... like who?” The gun tilted up slightly as the soldier's confusion wrote itself across his face like paint on a sign.

  “Like you.”

  Before Ardin knew what was happening a rush of heat ran through his body and he threw his hands up. The soldier's expression moved from confused to terrified in a flash. Before the boy could even scream he was consumed by white flames. A moment later all that remained were the blackened smoking remains of his body.

  Ardin dropped to his knees, staring at his hands. A gentle white mist dispersed from around his legs and into the surrounding grass. All he could do was gawk, open mouthed in disbelief as the white heat he had felt a moment earlier returned to some deep recess within himself he had never known. The thought started scratching in his mind again, twisting and writhing until it felt as if there must actually be something in there working its way deeper into his brain.

  He placed his hands on his head and yelled, as if he could force it out. His yell was cut short, however, as all it accomplished was to aggravate his headache. It was returning with a vengeance after being dismissed by the intense focus of a moment before.

  Then it clicked, as if two long-estranged synapses had finally been reunited. In one moment of clarity he saw her, the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. It was the girl. The one that John had been in love with these past few months, he was sure of it. Her face was clear as day in his mind's eye, and for a few seconds she was all he could see. Her long, flowing auburn hair was dark, but had an infusion of red that brought life to it. It was matched in richness only by the depth of her eyes.

  It was as if a voice spoke to him, Save her. And the vision was gone. The headache left with it.

  What on earth? He wondered as he sat a moment longer. The stench of the burned soldier lingered in the air.

  What's happening to me? The vision returned to his memory, the thought of the girl, of the urgency of her need. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he was certain she was in danger. Someone needed him. He didn't have anyone left here, and the thought of any coming reprisals from the military didn't make staying any more attractive.

  Maybe she was the key to redemption, to proving himself. To repenting his failure to save his family.

  He stood, a renewed sense of strength running through him, and he started running for the road as quickly as he could. He knew where he had to go. She would be west. He would save her.

  ALISIA WOKE UP screaming in a cold sweat. She s
topped her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes, breathing heavily as she tried to shut out the dreams. Her mother was gone, that was clear to her. She had felt a severing between them and sensed the dispersion of energy as her mother had died. It hadn't been nearly as powerful as she had expected, but then what did she know of how it should feel?

  Charsi's daughter sat up in the small grassy space between two fallen logs and leaned her back against the larger of the two. She had been on the run ever since her mother had wiped out the fishing village, knowing it would bring prying eyes and murderous hands. The last thing she wanted was for her fate to affect those who had protected her over the years. The young Magess had nowhere to go, and with no one left to turn to for help she felt truly lost.

  Dawn was breaking through the trees as the sun worked every angle to penetrate their branches. Alisia rubbed the tear-mingled sleep out of her eyes and sat up again, leaning on one of the logs. Her white pants and light jacket had long stained brown and green in her flight. Twigs and dirt made her tight brown bun of hair look like a frazzled, botanic nightmare. She must look like a mess, and didn't want to think about it. She was glad no one was around to see her like this.

  She lay her head back on the log as her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten in three days. Her meager ration of food had disappeared much faster than anticipated, and now her bag sat mostly empty except for a small book, change of clothes, and a knife.

  Alisia stared at her brown boots as her lower lip slid out and began to quiver slightly. She slowly moved the toe of her right foot back and forth, thinking about her mother and all of the people she would never see again. The guardians she had been left with were so kind, so patient with her. She hadn't ever told them how much she appreciated their care; she didn't expect to get the chance now.

  She pulled her necklace out from under her shirt, twisting the dark gemstone in the morning light. It was caged by what she assumed was silver. The stone itself was a deep, vacuous black that seemed to absorb light and give none back. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled her knees up, hugging them as she bowed her head.

  Birds in the forest started chirping, greeting the rise of the morning with a musical cacophony. A light breeze grazed the back of her neck, lifting the hairs gently as a chill danced across her skin. The large leaves above her rattled quietly as the wind whisked through them and rustled the paper-thin white bark of the trees. This would be a beautiful place to Alisia had she found it in better times.