by T. D. Steitz
Arise
The final notes drifted from Layla’s lips. Her fingers strummed the last strings of her harp, and the whispers of her song lingered in the night air.
Alistair climbed into bed with the sound of his mother’s hopeful melody still in his head.
She came alongside him, kissed him gently on the cheek and whispered. “Good night, my sweet little boy. Sleep well.”
Alistair rolled his eyes at the way his mother continued to wish him goodnight this way. Deep down he didn’t mind though. She would always be his Momma. “Goodnight, Mom.” Alistair yawned.
As he rolled over and tried to get comfortable, his mind swam with the thoughts of the day as he drifted off to sleep. Images of Tancred and the Fallen, and Calamity crowded his dreams. The closer he drew to sleep, the more he dared to entertain the pleasant thoughts of hope. Maybe Ardent was real, and maybe he would set the world free again. However, Alistair knew that the coming dawn would bring reality into view again. It would be harder to hope for the future he desired when he could no longer close his eyes and imagine the world differently. With those thoughts wrestling in his mind, sleep took him and for a brief while, his world was at peace.
Chapter Three
The Breaker
The night surrounding the Valley of Plenty was thick and still. If it weren’t for the fires smoldering in simple homes, the valley would seem lifeless. An indistinct scuffling disrupted the stifling quiet. Somewhere in the darkness, a twig snapped, and leaves crunched quietly underfoot as two Fallen scouts approached the outer rim of the Valley.
The men moved like animals stalking their prey. They were small, thin, and spider-like. Years of slinking through the shadows had left them with light, ashen skin. As they drew nearer to the Valley, one scout looked at the other and signaled silently. The first scout effortlessly scaled a nearby tree while the second continued scurrying forward on all fours. They scanned the perimeter of the village; one watched high, the other watched low.
The ground scout heard a faint bird call and searched the trees until he found his cohort.
The scout in the treetops signaled again in the dim moonlight.
The ground crawler moved out of the safety of the forest and into the open for a closer look at the town.
The spy peered inside the nearest hut and saw nothing but unarmed, sleeping townspeople. He hopped the fence to the hut’s small corral and a goat brayed at his approach. He silenced it. The dark figure hardly made a sound, as he crawled from house to house. His gray eyes gleamed in the hazy moonlight. At every cabin he visited, his twisted grin grew wider. After searching the entire town, he slunk back to the shadows to rejoin his partner.
The scout who was keeping watch from the surrounding trees returned to the forest floor. “Well?” He whispered. “What did you find?”
The scout who infiltrated the town stifled a cackle. “It’s all farmers and their families. Not a single soldier! We should take it tonight!”
The pair could barely contain their excitement. They rushed back through the woods to give their report. Their bloodlust grew as they tore through the forest until they emerged within a massive host of battle-hardened Fallen raiders.
The Fallen raiders were much different than the scouts. They shared the scouts’ thirst for death, and their wild, gray eyes. But they towered over them. With bulging muscles and thick, dark veins, these were warriors. They preferred force over stealth.
The scouts passed between the massive guards standing watch and entered the Fallen encampment. Many of the Fallen were sharpening their weapons or competing in tests of strength. Some were tearing the flesh off the bones of their last kill. A group began to form around the scouts and the eager soldiers pressed them for information.
“What did you find?” One asked.
“How many fighters?” Another demanded.
The scouts nervously ignored the questions from the other Fallen and hurried through the camp. An ax flew from the shadows and buried itself in a tree. The scouts froze. The ax had missed them by inches.
“Answer the questions!” shouted the ax thrower. He stepped out of the shadows and approached the scouts. “What did you find?”
The lead scout trembled. “We are to give our report only to Alvah.”
The ax thrower sneered.
Then, Alvah, the massive Fallen commander stepped out of his tent. He spoke with a deep, reverberating voice as if his commands echoed from the mouth of a great cave. “Back away.”
The mighty soldiers bowed low and retreated.
Alvah ordered the scouts to enter.
The scouts shuffled forward and ducked into Alvah’s tent. They followed him inside and kneeled before him as he took his seat.
Even while seated, Alvah towered over others. His head and face were shaven. He wore no armor. He preferred his enemies have an open invitation to drive steel through his bare chest, while he killed them. He wore a chain around his neck, bearing the decaying hands of the few men who had ever managed to draw his blood in battle. If any soldier ever accomplished this, Alvah would honor them by taking one of their hands for his collection but leaving them with their lives.
The scouts kept their heads down; not daring to look Alvah, the Breaker, in the eyes. They shuttered when they thought back to the day Alvah won both his nickname and his throne. Fallen commanders came to power by challenging, and defeating, their predecessors. They weren’t allowed to speak the name of their former chief, but they could recall his face. The scouts’ memories flashed to the day when Alvah stormed through the camp shouting his challenge to their chieftain. Their great leader stepped forward in front of the crowd and proudly accepted.
Alvah tore forward, throwing himself at the Fallen chief. As was tradition, no weapons were used. The two powerful men fought each other with their bare hands.
The crowd cheered as their chief beat Alvah into the dirt. It seemed over.
Their chief stood with his foot pressed down on Alvah’s throat.
But then, Alvah got the wild look in his eyes that the Fallen had come to fear. He grabbed their chief’s foot, and with a roar, threw him into the air. Alvah rose and advanced.
The Fallen could practically feel his pounding fists through the ground as he turned their chief into an unconscious heap.
Alvah bellowed and lifted the chief high above his head ensuring that all who watched knew their loyalty now belonged to him. He brought the chief’s limp body down onto his knee with a resounding crack. Since then, no one had dared challenge Alvah the Breaker.
“Your Report!” Alvah demanded.
One scout spoke with a trembling voice. “We didn’t find anything of concern, commander.”
“There was no military presence and only a few men with any fighting potential.” The second scout added. “Our only opposition will be a few goat herders and farmers with pitchforks. We should attack tonight!”
Alvah replied calmly. “If I ever want it, I will carve advice from your head.”
The scout whimpered and pressed his face to the ground. “Forgive me, your greatness. I know nothing. You alone command us.”
Alvah stood and paced around his tent. “So, no battle waits for us, only blood; free for the taking.” He sneered at the still-kneeling scouts. “Gather the men. We’re leaving!”
The scouts scrambled out of the tent and to a pair of large, wooden drums, which they beat in a slow, unnerving rhythm. As the pounding drums filled the air, snarls and howls rose from the camp.
The warriors eagerly awaited the slaughter. Sparks flew as the jagged, black metal of Fallen weapons was sharpened. The clanging of steel grew as the Fallen prepared to move out.
Alvah strode from his tent; his dented shield was smeared with blood. He made his way to the front of the throng. “An hour of darkness awaits us. Let rage consume you!” Alvah released a deep, guttural shout and thrust his twisted blade into the air.
The air exploded with cheers as the Fallen Horde moved out. The Fall
en reached the valley.
Alvah raised his fist and the army stopped at the edge of the trees. Alvah surveyed the small town stretched out before him. He sniffed the air and listened to the wind. Thin fingers of smoke drifted from the valley chimneys and swirled together with the smoke in his gray, lifeless eyes. He grinned and raised his warped sword.
The drums beat again, like a heartbeat. The men grew anxious as the war drums’ pulse quickened.
Alvah’s sword dropped, and darkness poured into the Valley of Plenty.
Alistair stirred in his bed. A distant thumping, like far off thunder reached him. The sound grew louder and more rapid. He bolted upright, and the color drained from his face, drums. The rhythmic booming exploded all around him, and then stopped. A high-pitched, terrified scream pierced the silence.
The scream brought with it the sounds of a colossal battle. Alistair jumped to his feet and sprinted to the window. His parents quickly joined him. They watched in horror as Alvah’s army flooded the Valley.
They went from home to home kicking down doors and slaying everyone they found. Screams filled the air. The moon illuminated the massacre.
All Alistair and his parents could do was watch. People scattered into the woods. Some made it, but most were mowed down. The bells of the old bell tower rang through the night.
A few villagers gathered at the rousing sound and tried to fight. They armed themselves with whatever weapons they could find, scythes, axes, even shovels. They fought with everything they had. A few people made it to the safety of the forest because of the distraction. But in the end, they were no match for The Fallen.
Dalibor grabbed his wife and son and pulled them away from the window. The Fallen would certainly make their way to the outlying farms, including theirs. Dalibor hurried Alistair and Layla into the grain cellar beneath the house. As he joined them, he pulled an old rug over the small door in the floor.
They huddled together in the corner and waited.
Dalibor, Layla, and Alistair breathed in the dusty cellar air.
Alistair had found a small slit high up on the cellar wall where he could still make out bits of what was happening. He watched as Fallen soldiers searched each settlement.
They took anything they thought was valuable.
Most survivors of the initial attack were murdered, but those deemed the strongest were dragged into a group in the center of a ring of Fallen guards.
Alistair jumped back when he heard voices outside their cottage.
Dalibor put a finger to his lips and pulled his wife and son close.
Bang! A Fallen soldier kicked down their door, and several pairs of feet shuffled inside. Crashes and thuds echoed around them as the soldiers ransacked their home. A soldier came to stand directly over them while he surveyed the little kitchen.
Alistair and his family watched the grotesque man silently through the slats in the floorboards. Thick drops of fresh blood ran off his lowered sword and fell through the floor. Without thinking, Alistair shrank away.
Dalibor grabbed him and covered his mouth, but the soldier standing above them had heard the sound.
He stiffened sharply, and cocked his head to the side, listening. Finally, he left to join the other Fallen as gray morning returned.
As the morning brightened, Alistair crept back to the slat in the wall.
The only people left alive in the valley had been rounded up and were now kneeling in a line, heads down, with their hands tied behind their backs.
A massive Fallen man, who looked like their leader, paced back and forth as he spoke to the frightened men and women. The man’s voice echoed through the Valley. “My name is Alvah. Consider yourselves fortunate. You are the strongest and most worthy of your pathetic village. I am offering you a choice. You can either die with the rest of your town, or you can embrace the darkness and join me.” Alvah pulled a thick, fuming, black mass out of a pouch on his belt, and showed it to the prisoners. He stared into it as if in a trance, until he was interrupted.
“We’d never join you, you monster!” The young farmhand who had spoken spat on the ground at Alvah’s feet.
“He’s brave, this one.” Alvah said, approaching the boy. “Bravery has no place in this world.” With one quick motion, Alvah snapped the young man’s neck.
Alistair gasped as the farmhand slumped to the ground. Alistair could practically see the quivering lips and tear-stained cheeks of the remaining prisoners. He felt their fear.
“As I was saying,” Alvah went on, “Each of you has a choice to make.” He stopped his pacing and stooped low in front of the young woman on the far end of the line. “So, what’ll it be?”
The young woman looked up into Alvah’s smoky eyes and gulped. After a moment’s hesitation, she buried her face into the hazy, black mass and breathed in deeply. A sinister smile spread across her face, and she rose to her feet. Black tar seeped out of her newly grayed eyes. A Fallen soldier cut her bonds and she joined her new tribe. The Fallen whooped and cheered, as they welcomed her into the darkness.
Alvah worked his way down the line of prisoners, offering each one their choice. Some gave into fear and embraced the toxic fumes. Others chose death. One thing was always the same though; no matter what the choice, the onlooking soldiers cheered.
Layla turned to Dalibor and whispered. “If we go now, we might make it to the forest.”
Dalibor nodded and gestured for Alistair and Layla to follow him quietly. He stood and lifted the cellar door just enough to look through. Once he was satisfied that it was safe, he swung the door open and crawled out. He took his wife’s hand and led her out.
Alistair pulled himself out of the cellar after his mother.
Dalibor crept to the kitchen window to ensure that the soldiers were all still gathered around the spectacle of the survivors.
Slowly and carefully, they cracked open the back door of their cottage and prepared to sprint for the trees.
Meanwhile, Alvah ordered his army back to their camp. “Scouts! Search the town again! Make sure we didn’t miss anything. The rest of you move out!”
The Fallen horde, including the Valley survivors who had chosen to join them, returned to the woods. Fallen scouts spread out to make sure that everyone and everything in the valley was destroyed. After their search, all but one of the scouts disappeared into the trees behind the Fallen army.
The last scout turned to the final house on a small farm outside of town.
Dalibor, Layla, and Alistair had reached the edge of their land and were crouched behind their barn. The barn was the last shelter before the open fields that led to the forest.
Alistair had never felt fear like the terror in his heart.
They couldn’t see what Alvah and his men were doing, but they hadn’t heard any sound from them for some time.
Dalibor squatted down in the hay. He placed one hand on Alistair’s quivering shoulder, and the other held Layla’s. “Alright, we can do this.” He reassured them. “We’re going to go one at a time. I’ll go first. Stay here until I say it’s safe. When you go, run as hard as you can. Do not stop until you’re in the trees. Understand?” He looked from Alistair’s eyes to Layla’s and back. “I love you both so much. Remember, stay here until I say it’s safe to follow.” He hugged them both and moved to the edge of the barn. With a final glance left, and then right, he started running. He ran out into the open field.
Alistair and Layla watched and prayed that he would make it to the forest. Finally, they saw him disappear behind a tree.
Dalibor popped back out from behind the tree on the edge of the forest and signaled that the coast was clear.
“Ok Mom,” Alistair whispered, “it’s your turn.”
Layla shook her head and insisted “No, Alistair you go first. I’ll be right behind you.”
Truthfully, Alistair was far too scared to wait in the barn by himself, so he quickly agreed. He looked around one last time and started running.
Panic set in as Alist
air realized how exposed he was. It felt like he was running through water. He begged his legs to move faster; to get him out of the open.
His father watched and encouraged him.
Alistair put his head down and ran as hard as he could. He was almost to the safety of the trees. Alistair raised his head again and saw his father, but Dalibor’s smile was gone.
His eyes had gone wild, and his mouth was open in a tortured scream.
Alistair didn’t understand.
His father’s voice carried through the air, but he couldn’t make out the words. Dalibor sprinted back towards him.
What are you doing? Alistair wondered. Why would you come back out in the open? As Alistair’s father drew closer, Alistair realized that his eyes were not locked on him, but on something behind him. Alistair turned around slowly, dreading to see whatever had rattled his father. As he turned, his gaze fell on his mother.
She was standing right where he’d left her.
She had an odd look on her face. The traces of a smile lingered there, but her eyes were somehow less clear. She wasn’t standing quite as tall and proud as she usually did. She seemed weak.
It was as if Alistair was looking at a blurry reflection of her. Alistair searched his mother’s face, and in a moment of gut-wrenching clarity, he saw it. A crude, black sword protruded out of her chest.
Time froze. Alistair could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. He was screaming; shrieking and crying harder than he ever had. The pounding in his head drowned out the sound, but he felt razors in his throat. His legs trembled and could no longer support him. He crashed to his knees, still screaming. His eyes stared at that wretched sword. He found himself gasping for air, but his lungs wouldn’t be satisfied.
Alistair watched a vicious sneer and smoky, lifeless eyes emerge from behind his mother.
The hideous Fallen scout still gripped the handle of the sword that pierced her. With a glint in his eye, the scout yanked out the sword and she collapsed.
Alistair watched his mother fall slowly to the ground. He tried to run to her. He tried to catch her; to save her. But his body was paralyzed. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
