The Rhion saluted her with a Sol Invictus and marched off to their respective places. She led the way to the stairs and ascended the tower. It wrapped around like a great stony snake.
She was heading straight for its jaws.
Her body screamed as she climbed the steps. The pumping adrenaline in the fury of battle had invigorated her, distracting her from her injuries and the sheer toll that battle put on her. Even just minutes after winding down, her body had been ready to quit. Despite her moons of training with the other Rhion toward the greatest physical shape of her life, she still wasn’t strong enough for this.
Almost at the top, she reminded herself. I’ll have answers soon. Almost there.
At the end of the stairs, the doorway to the Grand Elder’s quarters stood high and mighty as it guarded the spineless graybeard. Arynn’s shoulder shoved into the door without getting so much as a budge, as if the wood still possessed the strength of the mighty tree it once was.
“If I may, Legate,” one of her Rhion offered.
Arynn stepped back, hands gesturing to the door. “By all means.”
The Rhion knocked against the door in various spots with his ear close to the door. When he seemingly found a spot he liked, he unslung the rifle from around his shoulder and pressed the barrel against the door. “You all might want to stand back farther.”
Arynn obeyed, as did the other two Rhion. The gun exploded against the door, daggers of wood slicing through the air in chaotic swirls as the Rhion cut alongside the width of the door. The cadence of gunfire resonated through the entrapped stone stairway. Arynn covered her ears but that made about as much of a difference as closing windows during a thunderstorm.
A loud ringing lasted in her ears well after the Rhion quit firing. “Get ready,” he said, gun still raised. The two other Rhion raised their weapons as well, and the one by the door struck the torn wooden barrier with a heavy kick. The door swung open with a screaming crack. The three Rhion ran into the room with their weapons raised.
Arynn followed close behind, turning back at the door to see what the leading Rhion had done. The door had been barricaded, and he’d knocked against the wood to hear for the changing densities before ripping through it with his automatic weapon. Crafty, she thought with admiration.
“Have you all lost your mind!” a frail, bitter voice wailed.
A sour taste came up at the back of Arynn’s throat as she looked at the pitiful old man with disgust. She couldn’t believe she’d once feared this man. Blazes, I even respected him once! The Grand Elder, hunched over in a stained and foul-smelling tunic cowered with his hands raised over his head as if they would save him from a swarm of stinging bullets.
“This is unacceptable! Not at what we had agreed upon—no, not at all! Gatron and I made a deal. I’m not—Vänalleato is not to be harmed!”
“Oh, is that so?” Arynn asked. She crossed her arms as she slowly approached the town leader.
The Grand Elder squinted hard, almost as if he were pretending not to recognize Arynn at first. “You! How could you do this to us? Gah, but I should have known. You’ve always been a blemish on our town. And to think one of our own betrayed us…”
“Oh, the horror. See, I could say the same for you.”
The Grand Elder blinked. “Why I never—”
“Go on. Do continue about that deal you made with Gatron to betray your people.”
His eyes squinted like they were staring directly into the sun. “No, no. I-I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t say anything of the sort…”
The wooden boards beneath Arynn’s feet moaned as she stomped against the floor. Her hands squeezed the Grand Elder’s coarse beard. He yelped like a beaten dog as she tugged his chin up, forcing him to meet her eyes.
“Explain yourself,” Arynn growled.
“Yes, yes, yes—please don’t hurt me!”
Arynn twisted his beard and the old man squealed. “Talk.”
“Gatron and I made the deal when he first made contact with us. He threatened us—you have to understand! Would’ve burned the whole town down with those cursed weapons of theirs. I couldn’t let such a thing happen. I had to protect my people. Ænæria was hurting for laborers what with their famine and all. We came up with a deal, you see! He’d spare us and prevent any attacks by the other Ænærian provinces in exchange for a labor force.”
“Slaves,” Arynn corrected, spitting out the word like venom. “You sold your own people! How is that protecting them?”
“I did my people a great service, you treacherous fox! I culled our people of those who would taint the Great Dream with their wicked ways. And it worked! Only the best of our people remained. Our town became a pinnacle of morality and righteousness.”
“If that’s true, then why was I still around, huh? You couldn’t stand the fact that I didn’t abide by your alienating laws. That’s why you had Sera taken, isn’t it?”
“Gah, you two were part of the last of the ill stock I meant to remove from our otherwise perfect society! The both of you were meant to be together when she was taken. But you weren’t. Your father had kept you behind that day, although he couldn’t have possibly known about my deal with Gatron. Things got messy after she was taken—you and her family made too much noise about it. I had to do something, make some kind of response that Vänalleato would understand. Not while the town remained unready for the truth; too many whom I did not trust, needing to be removed themselves.”
A connection was made within Arynn’s mind. Something she should have seen a long time ago. “You had my father’s kidnapping arranged. When he was guiding that nomadic couple.”
The Grand Elder’s lip quivered until resting into an ugly scowl. “And once again, I had information that you would be with him—not watching over his shop! Bah, but imagine how relieved I felt when I’d learned you went off with the Freztad boy looking for him. I thought for sure you wouldn’t return. Then I’d have only a few others to remove until this wondrous town could be a utopia filled only with those born of strong and moral fiber!”
There was a flat and loud smack, like that of a cracking whip, as Arynn slapped the Grand Elder across the cheek.
“Do not insult me again. Remember who’s holding your life in their hands.”
“Oh ho, but you prove my point, wench!”
Another snapping whip followed as a second angry red handprint marked the Grand Elder’s pale face.
“People born with your stains are exactly the type I meant to rid from this town. Gatron cared not what type of people I handed over to the slavers. So long as they were alive and able to work.”
Arynn resisted the urge to kill him right there. She exchanged glances with the Rhion, who closed in on the old man, holding him down so he couldn’t fight back. It would be so easy to order one of them to put a bullet in his warped mind. It was a simple task for these men. Though they were both close to her in age, days like today were rather commonplace in their lives. An urge to know more was all that stilled her hand from making the command.
“Who else knows about this deal you’ve made with Gatron? As a legate, I should have known something like this. Clearly, he’s kept this a little secret of his. Which makes me think the two of you were keeping this close to yourselves. What was the end game?”
“I told you already: to make Vänalleato a pinnacle of morality, one of which the Ascendants could be proud. I had no idea Gatron hadn’t made this public knowledge. That wasn’t part of our deal! We were meant to be spared from such invasions. He even told me your current king had personally requested Gatron to search for information throughout the Penteric Alliance. I have men throughout the five settlements reporting information for me, letting me know when undeserving people of insufficient moral values were on their way to our town. One of those informants told us of the existence of Xander’s daughter, which King Randolph was especially interested in.”
By the Ascendants. It’s a blazing conspiracy. “That’s how all thi
s started,” Arynn realized. “You had someone in Freztad leak information back to Ænæria about Rose being Xander’s daughter.” She turned to the three Rhion with her. “Did you know about this? That we have people reporting to us throughout the Penteric Alliance?”
The men shook their heads. They looked as surprised as Arynn, if not more so with eyes glazed over in confusion.
“Then it all went to the boiling depths of the Gjoll when you and the Freztad boy captured the slaver and then Gatron himself! The slaver, Arma, knew too much of our deal. She needed to be silenced, but your father was suspicious and put his own people in place to protect her. At the very least I was able to organize Gatron’s escape so he could continue our deal and ensure our protection. It seems that was all for naught, as the man himself is tainted with greed and vanity. Gah! I can’t believe he never told the other legates. None of this should have happened!”
And that was it, the last bits of information Arynn needed. She remembered back to when she, Ben, and Darius had sent Gatron and his Rhion to Vänalleato as captives while Pawel and his parents sought asylum. Then back to Parvidom when she heard from Fenwin that Gatron had died in a sung explosion. In Jordysc, she’d heard his death had been faked, and he’d somehow escaped. And lastly in Ignistad when she sat in for the high council. She’d seen the look on the other legates’ faces when they saw Gatron still alive. He hadn’t handed over details about his survival then. The king hadn’t wanted to focus on that, and the others wouldn’t dare challenge their new Chosen.
“But now that I’ve told you,” the Grand Elder said, “you know that we’re on the same side! Call off your men. This is all just one big misunderstanding. You wouldn’t want to ravage the town which has provided so much for Ænæria! By the Ascendants, we even raised you!”
Arynn twisted the old man’s beard harder as he spoke those final words. He grimaced in pain but had enough dignity not to whine any more than he already had. She released her grip and pushed him backward. The Rhion saw and let go of him. He stumbled back to the wooden floor and groaned as his frail body slammed against it.
“Thank you!” he exclaimed with praise in his voice. “You will not regret releasing me. It is what’s best for our people!”
“Yes,” Arynn whispered. “It is.” The Grand Elder’s eyes lowered to a pool of blood spreading across his stained tunic. Arynn’s pistol was still pointed at his heart, small traces of smoke billowing from the barrel as the dead man’s soul finally joined the Ascendants.
“Two of your stay and help me clean up this mess,” Arynn ordered. “The third of you go send a message. I want my father found. I have questions that need answering.”
Epilogue
It was a room that should not have been quiet. The eerie stillness of the aftermath was more disquieting than the last moments in an operation when it was clear the patient was beyond saving. During even those times, Gus had pushed on, making every effort to return them from the brink of death. He’d pushed hard against their chests, breathed into their lungs, and even on occasion, he had held their hearts in his hand and squeezed to pump just enough blood through their bodies. After the massacre at home, Gus had never had an easy time letting go.
He knew there was nothing he could do here. Broken necks, cracked skulls, severed carotids, puncture wounds to the heart and major vessels of the abdomen. He couldn’t stop hearing the sounds of death repeating in his head. Worse, he couldn’t even try to help anyone who may have survived the Enochian’s slaughter. Because Gus couldn’t feel his legs.
Only in Marzora had he ever felt this useless. Except he’d been a mere child then. He’d known nothing of the healing arts. At times like this, he wished he could return to the ignorance of youth. Then he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the hopelessness of the situation. After the Enochian had thrown him across the chamber, Gus landed against a metal pillar and struck the small of his back. Not only had the impact of the Enochian’s fist likely shattered his ribs and pierced his lungs, but the fact that he couldn’t move or feel his legs probably meant his spinal cord had been damaged. I’ll never walk again. I can never march home.
Next to him lay the dead Enochian that had wrecked so much havoc. It was still, its half-broken helm revealing it to be no monstrous beast but something that looked merely human. A terrifying thought entered Gus’s mind. Aside from its eyes, there was nothing all that different looking from a human. Sure, it was freakishly tall, and its skin had a golden hue, but such features could be seen in humans. The glowing eyes had obviously stood out, but now that it was dead, its eyes looked as blue as his own. These things could be walking among us with nothing but sun-goggles to disguise them, and we’d never notice!
There was a clutter that echoed in the still room. Ben groaned and slowly tried getting to his feet. Gus was thrown into a coughing fit as he tried to tell Ben to stop. The injuries that Ben had suffered should have killed him. The Enochian’s punches were strong enough to launch the giant Skalle across the room and unleash explosive shockwaves with claps of his hands. It showed no quarter when facing Ben, never once showing any sign of holding back as its fists and feet beat Ben in furious barrages.
For nearly a second, Ben stood up only to fall to the ground just as quickly. Ben cursed and cried in agony. Gus managed to turn just enough to face Ben. Seeing the tears pour down his face, Gus realized they weren’t just cries of pain, but for his deceased friends. His arms spread out, limp against the ground. He no longer looked like the mighty warrior that had just slain an all-powerful being. No, he just looked human. As empty and broken as the rest of the bodies in the room, save for the short and shallow breaths.
More blood leapt from his mouth and more coughs followed. Perhaps only minutes passed, but in the stench of death and silence of the Vault, time seemed to pass slow—as if against flowing water.
Gus’s throat cleared enough for him to speak. Except he did not know what to say. Gus had talked to people about death all the time. Told them they died of illness that he could not cure or that an operation had gone wrong. This was different. Gus had borne witness to slaughter like this before.
He was young then, perhaps a bit too naïve too. His desires had been handed to him back then and few times had he ever been told ‘no’ by anyone but his parents. Back then he was Augustus Severus III, youngest child of Remus Severus I—the king of Marzora and high lord of the Northern Kingdoms. Though he had not been heir to the throne, he was pampered by his parents and loved by the people. Marzorans had a deep love for their rulers, and Gus had been told that there was nothing but excitement when King Remus and Queen Paccia announced the birth of their fifth child.
Then Xander invaded Marzora with his band of southerners, wastelanders, and members of barbaric households of the Northern Kingdoms. Those households had been allowed to live on as nobility and remain influential parties of Xander’s new regime. Perhaps that was because they had not resisted. Marzora had once been a proud and powerful kingdom. None could challenge them, not even their northern neighbor, Juptora. But when Xander united them against Marzora, all hope had been lost. Gus could still hear the screams of his sisters being murdered in the room next to his. Their cries were just as clear as the crew he’d traveled with this Vault to with Ben. His brothers, old enough to hold their own in battle, fought hard to protect Gus when the Rhion had come into his room. It was the first time he’d seen blood pour from a man’s skin. Both of his brothers were cut down in front of him. Just as the Rhion raised their swords to send Gus to the afterworld with his family, a blade pierced through their throats.
That man had saved Gus’s life and spirited him away from the devastation of his kingdom. His name had been Juba. He was the only reason Gus had survived. He could not comfort Gus after seeing and hearing the end of his family. He hadn’t needed to. Juba’s advice had been all Gus had ever needed.
“Live, Ben. For them.”
Ben did not answer. Instead, there was a caw. A large black bird soared through
the still air and fluttered its wings into a landing. It was the same bird Gus had seen with Ben a few times before. It had a name that Gus could not recall. His mind had been exposed to far too many new names and titles and concepts. A messenger bird’s identity hadn’t seemed important to him before.
Ben whispered to the bird. It hesitated, turned its head from side to side as if contemplating something profound. “Do it, then find help,” Ben muttered.
The raven squawked and pecked at one of Ben’s many wounds. Specks of blood dripped from its long beak as it took back to the air and flew back the way it came.
Gus didn’t understand what had just happened. The pain and exhaustion must have taken over him soon after—before he had the chance to ask Ben—because he woke with a frightful start as a group of fifteen or so rugged men and women loomed over him and Ben. Two of them carried the injured wastelander girl who’d been thrown across the room similarly to Gus—although she looked worse off than him. Little shards of glass protruded from her skin and reflected the cool blue light of the Vault. Her breaths were labored and uneven and some of her fingers looked mangled and pointed in unnatural directions. The raven seemed to have returned with them and was now standing atop Ben’s chest as if to protect him. Three of the rugged newcomers approached Ben and the raven. They muttered a few things to each other that Gus couldn’t make out as two others walked over to him, their heavy boots against the metal ground loudly echoing in the chamber.
“Another one here, Larz,” a deep voice said above Gus.
“Think he’ll make it?” another voice asked, similarly deep but calmer in tone.
“More likely than them Orks scattered about,” another voice, raspier and higher, above Gus said.
“Get him too, then,” the deep and calm voice said.
The two people above Gus—a man and a woman by the looks of it, both with scarred and pierced faces—reached down to lift Gus from the ground. He tried to protest and yell in pain, but blood passed through his lips where words were meant. The two cursed and wiped the blood from their cloaks and hoisted Gus up into the air, one holding his upper half and the other probably by the legs, though Gus couldn’t feel it, and arching his head to look was far too painful.
The Heir of Ænæria Page 42
