Fate of the Fallen

by Kel Kade

  The tug at her core told her where to go. She followed it to the mouth of a cave. It was so narrow that she couldn’t imagine one of the giant gods fitting through. Still, she had to follow the call. The passage was dark, and she was forced to feel her way along the walls. She finally reached the end of the passage where it opened into a massive chamber. The walls and ceiling glowed with tiny blue specks, but the brightest light was in the center. There, standing on a rounded stalagmite, was a tiny person who stood no taller than half the height of Myropa’s shin. The person had a golden glow about her entire body that illuminated the cavern for a dozen yards in every direction. As Myropa neared, she realized the tiny person was Arayallen.

  The goddess’s attention was on the beetle sitting in front of her. To Myropa, the beetle wasn’t worth notice, but to Arayallen it was about the size of a large dog. Arayallen rested her chin on her palm as she tapped her cheek. Then she swiped her hand through the air, and the beetle changed from black to iridescent blue.

  Myropa was woken from her mesmerized stupor when the goddess said, “Hello, Reaper. What have you to report?” Myropa would have expected the goddess’s voice to be tiny to match her size, but it rather boomed as it echoed around the chamber.

  “Um, the forester seeks somebody called the fae. He thinks he can convince them to fight against the prophecy.”

  Arayallen laughed. “The fae? Oh, little reaper, the fae are never convinced. They are bargained with, and there is always a price—one that no one would choose to pay if they knew about it before making the deal.”

  The goddess pinched the air with her fingers and then moved her hands in a sinuous motion. Curved horns sprouted from either side of the beetle’s head. Arayallen placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head. She swiped a hand through the air, and the horns disappeared. She snapped her fingers, and they were back again.

  The goddess turned and stepped from the stalagmite, growing to her normal size before she even struck the ground. She collected the beetle on one finger and turned to tower over Myropa. Bending forward, she held the beetle out to her. “For you, little reaper.”

  Myropa looked at the beetle with a mixture of surprise, confusion, disgust, and awe. She hesitantly reached out to take the shiny insect. It crawled onto her shaking palm. “You created this for me?”

  Arayallen strolled around the cave, seemingly without a care, as she examined a few of her other designs. She said, “I imagine it gets lonely being a reaper. No one who might like you can see you, and no one who can see you likes you. It’s a little sad, really. But I suppose that’s the point. Either way, it’s yours. Don’t lose it, now. It’s one of a kind.”

  Myropa had never liked insects and particularly despised the kind that flew into her hair. In fact, her disdain for the little creatures was one of the reasons her life had taken the path it had. This insect, however, had apparently been designed just for her. She didn’t imagine Arayallen was trying to make her feel better. She knew the creature had a purpose; but, still, it was hers.

  “Thank you,” she said. “What is it called?”

  Arayallen waved her hand, and a shower of color spread over the moss at her feet. “How should I know? No one has named it yet. Don’t you understand how this works? The humans—or other sentient beings—discover and name them.”

  Myropa held up the beetle where she could see it better in the goddess’s light. She was mesmerized by the swirl of dark purples and blues and the way the light sparked off the hard elytra that protected its wings. She said, “Can I name it?”

  “You’re human, are you not?” said Arayallen.

  “I was,” said Myropa.

  Arayallen looked at her sideways. “Do you think that changed because you’re dead?”

  Myropa looked at her curiously, wondering if Arayallen was trying to tell her something or if she was just being mean. “I don’t know,” she said.

  The goddess waved a dismissive hand. “Be gone, then. And don’t lose that…?” Arayallen looked at her questioningly.

  “Nebula beetle,” said Myropa.

  Arayallen tilted her head and smiled. Then Myropa was suddenly back in the living realm. She didn’t even remember taking a breath, but she must have, or she could not be there. The beetle was still in her hand. It twitched and then scurried up her arm. Myropa immediately clamped her mouth shut and covered her ears, worried that it would try to crawl inside her. It didn’t, though. It stopped on her shoulder, then sat there as if satisfied with its perch.

  She slowly uncovered her ears and looked around. She was in a swamp, and unfortunately, her sense of smell worked fine. The swamp was filled with noxious fumes, which mingled with the stomach-churning, putrid, sweet scent of decay. The sounds finally reached her ears, and she spun just as an ugly horse walked right through her. She jumped out of the way and was for once glad that her feet did not truly touch the ground in this world.

  Aaslo rode at the head of the line, with Teza beside him holding what was presumably the wand that Peck and Mory had procured from Axus’s forces. The prophet and the marquess’s guard captain, Greylan, rode second, followed by the two thieves on a single horse, and then eight of the marquess’s guardsmen in double file. Mory glanced in her direction as they rode past, and Myropa shivered. For just a moment, she wondered if the boy could see her. Dismissing the ridiculous notion, she turned her attention to Aaslo and smiled. She liked to see Aaslo leading his men. She knew it was pointless to worry. They would all die eventually. She just hoped that Aaslo’s death was swift and that she would be there to carry him to the Sea. It was the pain of life she truly worried over. He had already endured so much.

  “Careful,” said Greylan. “These swamps have claimed many lives. Countless travelers have perished by either getting lost or looking for a shortcut. Well-trained professional harvesters go missing every season. It’s even said that during an ancient war, two opposing battalions, each thinking to lure the other into a trap, met their ends here.”

  “Death seems a meager threat at this point,” said Aaslo.

  The wand lit with a dull glow as Teza waved it toward her right while muttering words she read from a script in her other hand. Not far ahead was the beginning of the mangrove forest. Myropa followed as they traveled deeper into the muck. The horses’ hooves and legs had been wrapped with waxed hide and their muzzles covered with feed bags filled with herbs to help with the vapors. The people wore similar coverings over their faces, and Myropa wished she could do the same.

  The horses sank into the mud, which popped as they struggled to pull their hooves free. Their frequent stumbling threatened to spill their riders into the bog, from which they likely would not return. Once they were within the trees, the ground was somewhat sturdier, but the blight-infested roots and branches created more problems than they solved. Myropa wondered if the blight would be the end of them all.

  Two tethers suddenly snapped into place at her core, and Myropa’s frozen heart sank. One of the horses squealed as its leg caught in a tangle of roots and broke. The beast and its rider both fell into the murky water of the swamp. They wailed and gasped as they became infected with the blight. The others in the party watched in horror, unable to help the man as he flailed. His skin turned blotchy with black spots, and although he and his horse might have lived longer had they been on dry ground, they quickly succumbed to fatigue and drowned in the putrid muck.

  “This isn’t a natural blight,” said Aaslo. “A blight wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do you think the enemy caused this?” said Teza.

  Aaslo shook his head. “I don’t know. The marquess said these marshes bear useful plants that aren’t found anywhere else on Aldrea—plants used for healing. Perhaps the enemy set to destroy them to reduce our chances of survival.”

  “Seems pointless if they know we are already doomed,” said Ijen.

  “They didn’t know,” said Aaslo. “I kept Mathias’s death a secret until I told the king. The only other person who
knew was the high sorceress. I think this blight started long before then, though. The marquess said he, and his father before him, had been seeking help for many months.”

  “It’s true,” said Greylan. “This blight began nearly a year ago.”

  “So, if this was the work of the enemy, then they began their attack long before they found the chosen one,” said Teza.

  “Yes,” Ijen said. “Given the nature of the prophecy, I think they felt assured of the outcome.”

  “I have a question,” said Teza. “Why is it that prophecies are always in riddles? Do prophets seek to confound us on purpose?”

  “Well, yes, actually,” replied Ijen. Upon seeing her disgruntled expression, he said, “It’s not due to any maleficence. It’s a necessity. A prophecy is not completely clear to us. We talk about them like they are a story written out and followed precisely, but that truly is not the case. The visions do not come to us clearly or literally. They are specific to the prophet to whom they are delivered. For example, one prophet sees a fox running into a hole and believes that an actual fox will run into a hole; while another may see the fox as a metaphor for the royal house of Pashtigon, whose seal bears a fox. The second prophet may consider holes to mean death and interpret the prophecy to mean that the King of Pashtigon will die. A third prophet might feel that a fox represents a traitor and the hole is his hiding place.”

  “So, who’s right?” said Teza.

  “All of them, and none of them,” replied Ijen. “It’s entirely dependent on the prophet. The first one’s interpretation would not apply to the second’s vision. Sometimes we do not fully understand the vision and must guess at its meaning. The problem with writing prophecies down as we see them is that the interpretation is lost. You may not know what a fox means to the third prophet, so you might make a terrible error in your assumptions. Part of our education as prophets is learning to word a prophecy in such a way that the parts that are clear to us are made clear to everyone else. The riddle is intentionally designed to cause the reader to think critically about the remainder. It prevents people from making hardened, erroneous assumptions. At least, that’s what we hope. The quality of the prophecy is, again, dependent on the prophet. The Division of Prophecy sees thousands of prophecies thrown out every year because they are not deemed acceptable by their standards.”

  Aaslo dismounted to lead Dolt through a particularly difficult section of swampy forest, and the others followed his lead. As he did so, he said, “Are any of these discarded prophecies related to the Aldrea Prophecy?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Ijen. “As I said before, I didn’t tell anyone I was a Prophet of Aldrea, so I wasn’t given access to those prophecies. I doubt it, though. I should think that anything written of that prophecy would be taken very seriously.”

  “Wait!” said Teza. Everyone paused as she waved the wand toward a thick stand of trees. It glowed brighter each time she waved it past the trees. “There,” she said, pointing between them.

  Aaslo handed his reins to Peck, instructing the soldiers to stay where they were and reminding them to touch nothing. Myropa thought the warning unnecessary after having seen what happened to the guard and horse she had collected. She rarely was called upon to collect animals, so she had been a little surprised when she had received the tether. She hoped it meant that no other reapers were near, and she would have the honor of collecting Aaslo and his friends.

  She followed Aaslo across the matted lumps of dead and dying wetland foliage. He wore a glove on his good hand and had the dragon arm wrapped as he gripped the tree trunks and branches to balance on their roots. Teza followed, appearing much less sure about her footing. She slipped at one point and was caught by Greylan, who came after her.

  “I-I can’t do it, Aaslo,” said Teza. “I’m sorry. If it was just the swamp, I’d manage, but I’m terrified of the blight.”

  “You’re a healer,” Greylan said with distaste.

  Myropa could see the girl’s arms and legs shaking. She was sure that if Teza tried to follow, her soul would end up dangling from Myropa’s belt. Teza started to tear up as she waved frantically at Greylan to go back.

  “I must go with him,” said Greylan, unable to get around Teza to follow Aaslo.

  “No, no, no! Let me by. I need to go back,” shouted Teza, her eyes wild with panic.

  “Greylan, take her back,” said Aaslo. “She’s beginning to lose sense, and you are closest to her. If she falls in, you’re likely to go with her.”

  Greylan fumed as he turned around to lead Teza back to the horses. He called over his shoulder, “How will you find them without her?”

  When Aaslo didn’t answer, Myropa and the others looked his way in alarm. Aaslo was gone. Myropa quickly focused on her target, and she was suddenly beside him again. The ice at her core cracked and ground against itself as her terror was released through the friction. For the briefest moment, she’d thought he had fallen into the bog, and she’d missed collecting him. She glanced back through the trees and could see his party clearly searching for him. Even though they were looking straight at him, they couldn’t see him. Aaslo didn’t notice, because he couldn’t hear their calls any longer. Myropa knew what had happened. Aaslo had stepped into another realm.

  The blight had not reached the tiny haven in the miniature realm between the trees. A large tree unlike the others of the mangrove forest stood before them. The trunk was hollowed with a gaping hole in the center that was nearly as large as a man. Two glowing orbs could be seen in the dark hollow. The orbs winked out, then glowed again, and Myropa realized they were eyes. Aaslo stood perfectly still as the creature slowly slunk into the light, pulling itself from the tree. It started as a bluish-white salamander-like creature. Myropa’s knees nearly buckled for its beauty, a reaction that could not have been natural given her general dislike for wildlife. The creature grew and changed shape until it resembled a woman. Her pure white skin glowed with an ethereal light. The silver strands that flowed from her head danced on a nonexistent breeze as they sparkled with the light of stars in the night sky. Long silver lashes fluttered over silver eyes as she blinked at Aaslo demurely. She swayed to a haunting melody as her feet danced gracefully over the muck of the swamp.

  “She’s a magnificent being, is she not?” said a voice from beside Myropa. Myropa jumped and glanced over to see Arayallen standing next to her. “Not even I have designed something with such perfection.”

  “How can you be here? I thought the gods couldn’t come here.”

  “Oh, we can, but it takes much power.” She glanced at the beetle on Myropa’s shoulder. Its shimmery wings were spread open. “I hitched a ride with you to save power.”

  “You were inside the beetle?” said Myropa.

  “Not exactly,” said Arayallen. She nodded toward the scene in front of them. “Be quiet, now. This is getting interesting.”

  The creature pressed her nude form against Aaslo and brushed a finger across his jaw while he stood entranced. As she looked up at him, her silver eyes darkened to blackish red, and her pout was ruined by the sharp fangs that protruded from between her lips.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, her voice ringing in harmony to the melody of her song. “Everything here is dying. Will you feed me?”

  Aaslo reached up and took her hand from his face. “I’m not here to be your meal,” he said.

  The creature frowned at him. “You are not enthralled?”

  “You are quite the enchantress,” he said, “but my need is greater than my desire.”

  “Not a hapless traveler, then. Pity,” she said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I’m Aaslo, Forester of Goldenwood.”

  “A forester? I don’t recall a forester ever coming to my home. Do you taste different from the others?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Aaslo said.

  She stroked a hand down his dragon arm. “Not unchanged, I see. It would be an interesting pairing.”

  Moving on f
rom the subject of being someone’s dinner, he said, “What do I call you?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “None who have named me have lived to tell another. Do you care to try?”

  “Very well,” said Aaslo. “I shall call you Ina. I’m here to ask for your assistance.”

  “Ina,” she repeated as if feeling the taste of it. “Why would I assist you?”

  “Because this affects you as well. I know you have heard of the Aldrea Prophecy. The chosen one is dead.”

  “You lie,” said Ina. “He cannot be. The human magi protect him.”

  Aaslo pulled Mathias’s head from the bag, holding it out for her to see. She recoiled and then stepped closer for examination.

  “No! You’ve killed him!”

  “I didn’t kill him. I only brought his head to you as proof of our great need. The prophecy is clear that the enemy will destroy all life on Aldrea. Nothing will live. That includes you.”

  Ina backed away, shifting with agitation as she looked at him skeptically. “What do you desire of me?”

  “I intend to fight this. I refuse to believe there is no hope. You and your brethren can fight with us. With your power, we may have a chance.”

  “No, it is not permitted,” she said adamantly. Her gaze flicked to where Myropa and Arayallen stood, then back to Aaslo. “We cannot fight. You must ask for something else. We have much power—power you cannot understand—but we mustn’t interfere directly.”

  “Can she see us?” Myropa said.

  “No,” replied Arayallen. “She may sense our presence, but she knows not who we are.”

  “You would rather die than fight?” said Aaslo.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Ina. “I am willing to make you a deal, but I cannot do what you ask.”

  “Fine,” said Aaslo. “If you can’t fight directly, then lend me your power.”

  Ina grinned, her fangs flashing in the glow of her flesh. “Are you sure you want it? Many humans have sought me for power. They satisfied my hunger.”

  Aaslo said, “I’ve never sought power. I was content with my life as a forester. But the magi have left this realm and taken all the magic with them. A handful of stragglers is all that’s left. The enemy has magi aplenty, and they’re strong. We need power if we are to live.”