Sewing the Leaves
Rooftops and streets blurred below me, and I paid them no heed as I raced over the tall buildings of the inner city. By the time the ringing sound of my feet tapping a metallic tile rose high enough, I was already gone, several homes away. I had to reach the river gate to the inner city. The presence I’d just felt would be there at any moment.
Behind me, a collection of similar footsteps rang out, doing their best to keep pace with me. They had felt it too. All Knights had access to the barrier that surrounded our great capital, and so they’d felt what I had. The rest of the Royal Guard were up to their noses in work, so I was the only one who would be arriving.
Before me, a sprawling cityscape appeared over the rooftops. It stretched further than the eye could see, a beautiful sight I still to this day could not help but stop and admire.
Not this time.
Without hesitation, I leapt from a building onto the high wall, startling a guard, and jumped right off the edge. It was a long fall, enough to give me a moment where my thoughts could clear. What I had felt was a Knight Commander. And he was on the verge of death.
A light kick off the wall sent me hurtling through the air, sending me straight towards a small crowd that had gathered. The subject of their interest seemed to be a small, beat up-river boat, all steel and buoyant metals, not an unusual sight to see from upriver where farms and small settlements lined the banks all the way until Yiwi. What made this particular boat so intriguing was the sense of foreboding that emanated from its passengers, a sense of danger so strong it was no wonder the small crowd comprised hardened former soldiers or guards or lawmen. A quick glance revealed other onlookers were, in fact, forming a far larger gaggle of eyes, but they kept a fair distance out of fear from the sickening feeling emanating from that boat.
I ignored it. Pushing past gruff men and surly women who shut up the instant they saw me, I reached the small vessel and stared at a ghastly sight.
It was the team of Knight Commander Greyan. I may have been an oddity among the Royal Guard, but I had made it my mission to not only know the name of every Knight in our force, but to understand each one. It was a risk, as our job was inherently dangerous, and these people I came to know and love could die at any moment, but it was a price I shouldered, for the sake of my myself and our troops. As a result, I looked upon the faces of Greyan, Meyara, and Herwen and fought to hold back tears.
Meyara was the only Knight not worse for wear. Her eyes were bagged and her skin saggy, but other than bruising and various fresh scars, she would be in fighting shape with little more than a proper rest period. Her portable armor, which she still wore, was dirty and unkempt, much unlike her. Herwen was entirely disfigured. The prim man, once proud of his appearance, was marred by ugly burn scars all over the front of his body, much of it infected and oozing pus. His hair was completely gone, leaving him only sporting bandages and the marks of an angry flame.
And then there was Greyan himself. The man sat perfectly still, cross-legged, wearing only the torn undershirt of his uniform and a pair of baggy pants. He was caked in grime, and sweating so profusely it would be fair to assume he had fallen into the river. Angry red veins crept up his neck, reaching like claws for his face. Most strikingly was his Mind. It was like a beast unchained, most assuredly the source of fear for all but the most steel-hearted. The monster threatened to lash out and crush the heads of the onlookers in its jaws, but it thrashed against itself, not moving an inch. And yet, his closed eyes and that smooth, child-like face of his marred by the starkly contrasting dark beard were as serene as the warm ocean waters.
Most unlike the other figure sitting beside him. Her eyes, too, were closed, but her face wore a scowl so fierce it nearly put me on edge. It was a face vaguely familiar to me, perhaps one from a trip to Yiwi or Lemonholm. She was an older woman, ragged as the rest, and the entire front of her neck was wrapped in red veins identical to ones Greyan wore. Her Mind felt similar to Greyan’s as well, but even more controlled and far more sinister, like a snake lying in wait that was currently just a little overeager to find prey.
Without warning, a trio in neat suits jumped from the crowd, grabbed the old woman from the boat, and slunk through the crowd, disappearing into a nearby alley. It was so sudden and quick that many people nearly didn’t notice, and those that did had to rub their eyes to assure themselves they weren’t seeing visions of madness. My sorrow turned to ash. If the MIS was involved in this, it didn’t just make things more complicated; this could be disastrous for the already rocky relations between us. What had those pricks gotten my Knights involved in bringing them in such a sorry state?
I approached the boat and knelt, staring at Meyara. She turned her head up to look at me. Her eyes were sad. Angry. But not defeated.
“What happened, Meyara?”
The proud Knight looked at me, refusing to look away. But her eyes darted to the side for the briefest moment before she spoke.
“Our mission to Lemonholm was a success. We found the source of the poisoned shipment of lemons.”
“I think you know that I am asking for more,” I said, keeping my voice measured and soothing.
“Lord Feyomo…” Meyara hesitated. “We encountered far more resistance than we expected. Mercenaries arrived after we did, and we came into conflict with them. The townspeople too. A group of them, they were… They were executing and sacrificing their own townspeople. We were honor-bound to stop them. But…”
I noticed that the place her eyes kept darting towards was a sheet covering something at the front of the boat. Without checking underneath, I knew what it was. Greyan’s squad was selective. He only had three pupils. Herwen, usually chatty, hadn’t stopped staring at the sheet, as if he were memorizing every bump and wrinkle. The stone block of the riverside walkway I’d been gripping for support crumbled to dust in my hand.
“Meyara. I will be unfair to you. Before you have time to debrief, or to grieve, or to help Greyan’s critical condition, I will ask you this. Who?”
Meyara looked towards the alley, the one the MIS had run through. They were involved, far more deeply than they should ever have been. But when I saw Meyara’s eyes again, they told me a story. Something else had happened there in Lemonholm. The MIS, the townspeople, some random mercenaries. None of them explained this. I asked her again, this time with only a wisp of my Mind. She looked at Greyan, as if remembering an instruction of his. She most likely was.
The only thing I heard was a whisper. “I’m not sure.”
Unsatisfied, but finished, I reached into the boat and grabbed the sheet with the touch of a feather. As I brought her to my chest, a rush of activity sparked into being around me. Soldiers and medics had finally arrived, hurriedly taking Greyan and Herwen to the nearest hospital. Meyara was taken too, but she refused to be carried, holding her head high as she walked. Her debriefing later might reveal more, but if I was reading her right, she did not want to reveal the true nature of what had happened in Lemonholm without the word of her Commander. Valiant to be sure, but with me being the one asking her, Greyan’s word was moot. I hadn’t pushed out of respect, but it was the incorrect move on my part. All the same, I didn’t care in the slightest.
My procession was slow. I wanted time to think, to distract myself from the bundle in my arms. As I thought to myself, I hoped the Knight I carried could hear the thoughts in my Mind, letting her in on some of the dull and ever-nerve-wracking responsibilities of the Royal Guard.
The MIS had become too big of a problem. We had confided as such to the King many times over the last three years, but each time he assured us he had a method of controlling their organization. They deferred to him, so I did not question his wisdom, but their actions had been increasingly worrying. It wasn’t just this new development at Lemonholm. I had information from traveling Knights and various mercenaries that the MIS were operating with an overabundance of power in their jurisdictions. Worse, they seemed to undermine the Somuian Knights at every turn, even taking advantage of the Burning. But that all paled to the rumors that they were helping undermine the country itself, selling information and sensitive secrets to the Empire or Dreva or even to that President of the west. Those were only rumors, but if true, it meant that the Kind had truly lost control of them. And if he hadn’t?
It meant the King was specifically instructing them to undermine his own army of Knights.
I couldn’t decide which was worse. The only relief I had was that, at present, both the Knights and the MIS were being forced to work together for a common goal. Unfortunately, that relief ended there. Because this common goal was perhaps the strangest, most horrific mystery that had ever touched Siniwan in its thousands of years of history.
For weeks now, the entire city of over a million residents had been terrorized by a figure of nightmare. A humanoid creature with a voice like crumbling boulders, covered head to toe in stitches that held its body parts together only loosely. When it first appeared, it was easily dismissed as mere hysteria. Now it had appeared over a thousand times, sometimes in a dozen places at the same moment, reliably and only with the warning of its haunting songs. People had been attacked, being left injured, though no lives had been lost. The true evil of the creature was fear. It was intentionally making people afraid, interrupting business, disrupting livelihoods, making people lose sleep and spreading a flood of ever-disturbing rumors. Children refused to leave their homes, and schools had been closed for days. As it turned out, many of their parents agreed, shuttering their windows and boarding their doors. Despite the precautions, the creature could even appear within people’s homes, appearing and disappearing mysteriously, scaring families half to death before stealing their meats and cheeses and drinking their wine, trashing their homes, and in the worst cases, leaving behind trails of blood that emanated a smell of horrid death and which could not be cleaned by even the most invasive of techniques. The worst of it was an entire square that had to be permanently shut down and was being considered for destruction and reconstruction. That one was a grisly sight. Even I, who had witnessed battlefields, could only go into that square for at most a few minutes before I had enough. Ghastly.
There was no telling what this spectre was, where it had come from, or when it would be gone. The King had commanded that it be removed, as it displeased the Human, but we were all at a loss.
The clink and tap of greaves and boots behind me were of the same people who had been flying with me across the rooftops. As my solemn march took me through the gates into the inner city, and we headed up towards the castle where the Tomb of the Knight lay, several other pairs of feet joined behind. All told, only about twelve of the fifty Commanders followed me. I could guess which they were. They were some of the Commanders still stationed in the city. The ones missing, who weren’t outside the city, did not hold our ranks in sentimental value. I didn’t fault them for it, even if it filled my mouth with an unpleasant taste. Scores of Knights fell in line as well, and a procession formed. I would lay this fallen Knight to rest myself, and I would hope for retribution. This was the weakness of knowing every Knight.
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Partition of the Sea
A spear slammed into the ground a few meters away, blasting dirt into the ditches me and my fellow snipers sat in. I moved to rub my tired eyes, pausing only to wipe the grime from my face. I failed; my uniform was in a far worse state than my face.
People scrambled behind me, shouting orders and curses and not much else. Captain Ront was there, using our location as a temporary command post. I didn’t have to turn towards him to hear the exhaustion, what with him constantly moving in the back lines. Well, some back-line this was. Spears don’t land a few meters from a back-line. The raw strength of the orcs made me shudder, and yet I focused, looking along Death’s Gaze some kilometers towards the trenches on what were supposed to be the front lines.
Carnage. Pure chaos.
The colors of the Empire and Somuia blended together, sometimes not so smoothly as just jostling each other in confusion. Clouds of smoke tried to obscure my vision, new puffs constantly flying from the barrels of their guns. Most were older models. Only some Riktish foot soldiers had newer pieces. Even more held long pole arms, somewhat more economical than equipping every soldier with a firearm. Not that the soldiers cared about that. Whether they stood ready to have their arms turned to jelly by a large orc impaling itself on their weapon or sat desperately firing into an orc’s uncaring belly, your average soldier would - and was currently trying to - kill for a position like mine. I watched people scream, shout, and spill blood by the hundreds every day. Sometimes by the hour. The tiny push we’d managed against the orcish forces with our arrival, spurring the Somuians and scattered Riktish onwards with renewed hope, hadn’t lasted long. For days we had sat at a stalemate, but with my eyes I saw a grim future.
The orcs had begun to congregate, forming clumps some distance away, preparing to deploy more of those abominations. We’d tried desperately to mount offensives to move deeper, but it was the same problems we’d encountered since the war began that ground our progress to a halt.
Just as I began to think of the problems, they reared their ugly heads. A formation of orcs holding battered metal shields broke from their ranks, marching steadily forward. The shields were held by a smaller type, and I could see they were a squadron escorting a larger specimen forward. That was one of the behemoths that wore metal armor so thick it could be used for a ship’s hull. They also sported the quirk of having only one eye, though their stature couldn’t be mistaken for any of the other types of orc.
“Squadron, on me. You see that formation? Prioritize the big one. Do not, I repeat, do not shoot to incapacitate. Destroy the brain. Only shoot the shield-bearers if the infantry gets overwhelmed. I repeat, do not shoot to incapacitate. Destroy the brain.”
“”Yes Commander!””
As if they needed to be told, but I was under orders to mention it every single time. The early days of the war had caused some inane precautions, which only told me how terribly things must have been early on. Carefully, I aimed for the tiny opening in the behemoth’s helmet, waiting for the right moment. It had to die immediately, and its brain had to be completely destroyed. A tall order.
I took a breath. Held it. And fired. My gunshot was the signal for the rest of my squad to follow suit, and a hail of sniper fire rained on the behemoth. Most shots pinged off the armor, much like the bullet rain of the infantry on the shield bearers. But mine and a few other shots struck true. The behemoth slowly fell, and I let my breath escape until something caught my eye. One of the shield bearers in the back of the formation was bleeding.
“Shit. Prepare a volley!”
I didn’t know if it was one of my snipers being inaccurate, or if it had been injured by the gunfire on the ground. But the orcs were ready to take advantage. Three orcs in the formation heaved the behemoth onto their shoulders and used it as a makeshift shield, making a sudden mad dash forward to draw our fire. And one lone orc clasped the hand of the injured one, touched their horns together, and ripped its head off its shoulders.
The sight was now familiar to me, but familiar didn’t mean comfortable. While soldiers panicked at the mass of screaming metal and horns and impenetrable skin running at them like a warship with the wind, the orc holding its comrade’s head chucked it along the ground towards the trenches. I fumbled with my ammo, cursing all the while. There was nothing in the chamber. None of the others would be able to make the shot. The head rolled into the trench, and it was only in the final moments did a pair of troops notice. They didn’t panic. Their bodies went slack.
The orc’s head split in two and a trio of dark green lumps exploded from the skull. A fraction of a second passed. The lumps squirmed and expanded. Another moment. Protrusions became arms and legs. The next moment, a head formed on each lump. The next, horns sprouted, becoming finger-length growths.
It took no longer than a second for the three newborn orcs to become fully grown. They wore no armor, and their horns were small to show their age. But they were already several heads taller than the soldiers in the trenches, their skin tough as hardened leather. The infantrymen could hardly react before massive fists caved in their chest plates like flimsy sheets of light metal. The newborn orcs sowed chaos in the ranks, and the advancing group had the chance to descend upon our forces.
I stopped rushing. As calmly as I could in this situation, I slotted ammo into Death’s Gaze and prepared to salvage the increasingly chaotic section of our line. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened since I’d arrived, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. We still didn’t have a good way to deal with the orcs’ reproductive method, and until we did, the war would continue to drag on. From what I heard, people had known about the orcs’ cycle of death and birth before the war, but the consequences hadn’t been felt until the fighting began. When an orc died, it was only seconds later that their head would split open and at least one new orc would emerge from their brain, fully grown in moments. This was the reason, despite our superior technology and organization and resources, that the orcs had turned a scuffle into an all-out war involving the largest countries in the world. Their numbers grew constantly and rapidly. Even a newborn orc could produce multiple new orcs immediately upon death.
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It was a miracle that such a conflict had never come about before. Many thought we had been lucky, but it seemed obvious to me that if the only way to birth new beings of your kind was to die, a population of long-lived creatures would probably avoid reproducing. Who knows what prompted them to attack us?
“Oh Human.”
Captain Ront’s breathy curse snapped me from my stupor. My fingers were still inserting ammo as I looked to see what my commanding officer was so concerned about. Honestly, I wish I hadn’t.
Three gigantic metallic spheres rose from the ground several kilometers away, rippling and throwing the occasional sparkle thanks to the sun behind the darkening clouds. Three. It had taken days to destroy one of those abominations. The clumps of orcs below them surrounded a thin pillar of metal that each rose to meet the spheres, widening as they touched. My squadron cried in despair. When it had first appeared over a week prior, the sphere had been called a Moon of Death by most soldiers. Eventually, as the name was passed around enough, it was shortened to be referred to as the Death Moon. Now, most simply called it the Doom.
The surface of the closest Doom rippled, its liquid metal exterior rippling up to form dozens of spikes of metal. Then it fired.
Explosions dotted the front lines as spikes of solid metal flew through the air at blinding speed, the spikes each as large as an orc itself. A single volley heralded death. I watched helplessly as the other two spheres began their slow advance, helped along by the clump of orcs at its base. They were exceptionally slow and would take days to make any decent progress. But the Doom raining its storm of death upon us was as far from the front lines as I was, and the difference in power was overwhelming.
My hopeless gaze was trained on the Dooms, even as I fired at the newborn orcs still tearing through our poor troops. I had to aim for their eyes to destroy their brains quickly enough; their skulls were too thick to destroy. Only a few members of my squadron did the same. I eventually let my fear get the better of me and looked over my shoulder. Captain Ront sat on a portable stool, rubbing his temples. The chaos had actually died down, perhaps for a sense of defeat. These three Dooms would not spell the end of the war, far from it. But by the time they were destroyed, it was likely that we would not only lose the progress made in the last several months of hard-fought battle, but we would be pushed back further than the frontier had ever gone before.
“Commander?”
One of my snipers looked towards me for advice. Or orders. The look in her eyes was one of confusion, on a desire for someone to tell her what to do. Several of my other squadmates did the same, looking to me for our next steps. And what the hell was that supposed to be? Even Captain Ront was at a loss from what I could tell, and they expected me to have an answer? The Dooms were solid balls of metal with only a single orc at the center, constructs larger than buildings with an outer layer of liquid metal that wasn’t affected by our guns in the slightest. Our long-range guns barely had the power to kill a larger orc, and they wanted to know what we could do against that? Even if we thinned the clumps, I was the only one accurate enough to kill the smaller orcs whose Minds were the cornerstone behind making the Dooms function.
Spikes buried soldiers by the dozen. More orcs advanced. Even some medium-sized orcs moved forward, emboldened by the Dooms. It didn’t take my eyes to see the wave of despair flood our ranks. People ran, retreating before any order was given. Some officers gave the order regardless. I tried to wipe the grime from my face again. When I raised my gun, it shook too much for me to get an accurate shot. My heart was beating too fast to shoot. My squadron was panicking, asking me for orders, or turning to Captain Ront behind us. I almost felt as nauseous as when I sailed. All I could do was focus and use my eyes, looking at the battlefield. The scattered orcs advancing, the reflections of the light from the Dooms, the remnants of the forest far to my left and the increasingly stormy sea to my right.
Thoughts of the sea flooded my Mind. Perhaps it was my Riktish blood. I did love many things about the ocean, except being on or in it. Even storms. The storm brewing beyond the rocky cliffs caused waves to reach the top, massive gusts of wind growing stronger and stronger.
My eyes narrowed. The storm was getting worse too quickly. It was unnatural. There was even a massive waterspout rising from the surface, growing by the moment. I looked closer. Something was lodged into the spinning water, something that looked suspiciously like a gigantic warship. The storm was moving towards us, and so was this giant tornado of water. Straight towards us.
“Captain Ront?”
My voice cut through the din. Or at least, it did for Ront. He glared at me, his patience at wit’s end, about to scold me before he saw my pointing finger. When he looked towards the sea, it took him a moment to see what I saw. It was still far, after all. Once he did, his face transformed, from tired, to confused, and slowly, to a look of utter revelation. He stood sharply from his seat, startling the officers surrounding him. Others noticed the storm and pointed and whispered, but none had tears fall as Ront did.
“I can’t believe it,” Ront said.
What did he recognize? Why did nobody else know what approached? I strained my focus like never before, trying to see what it was on that ship-like object that had turned Captain Ront into a wooden plank. It was a truly massive galleon, lined with so many canons it seemed more like a spiky metal seashell than a ship. Sailors in neat uniforms sprinted across the deck, somehow keeping their footing despite the fact that the ship was being pulled about by a tornado. As if it ignored the laws of the ocean, the ship sailed the waterspout like it were a wave, and the spout almost seemed to follow the ship rather than the other way around. The storm itself actually seemed to follow the ship, the clouds swirling above the ship itself. No. Not above the ship. For some reason, it escaped my notice, but there was a massive pull of Mind originating from the front of the ship, right at the tip of the bowsprit. What I saw there made my breath catch in my throat.
A figure clothed in pure white, brilliant white cape flapping in the violent wind. The cape turned into the wind itself, whipping up clouds and water and rain. Her arms were crossed, and she stood nearly twice as tall as an ordinary person, and similarly wider. Muscles strained against the uniform, as if they tried to contain her strength. And the white was far from pristine. Splattered across the boots and gloves and shirt and pants was the unmistakable dark red of dried blood.
My breath was about to return to me before the figure’s head turned sharply, looking straight at me. My Empress tilted her head slightly. She nodded at me. Knew I was looking. Then she crouched. And then she jumped.
Against the darkness of the swirling clouds, she was a speck of white that flew like a bullet, heading straight for the middle of the battle. The storm followed her, as if she were bringing the storm behind rather than being carried by the wind. More people began to notice as torrents of water somehow reached the battlefield, gusts threatening to blow objects away and rain cold and sharp enough to bruise. The chaos behind me died down as more and more saw the flying Empress. By the time she approached the ground on the front line, my surroundings were entirely silent.
A column of dirt blasted into the air when she landed, a crater forming at her feet. The wind surrounding her kicked up more soil. It swirled around her, mixing with the water and wind and grew larger and larger. I heard gasps. I heard sobs.
Calm, as if she were the eye of the storm itself, the Empress strolled towards the largest congregation of orcs. They knew no fear, and charged without regard for their lives, knowing that if they died, dozens would take their place. Although she was enveloped in the storm, I watched as the Empress calmly wound her fist and threw a simple punch.
Her fist was a blur. I couldn’t see it. But I did hear the crack of thunder that followed. When her fist flew, she was still far from the orcs, but it didn’t matter. Wind and water shot forward like a canon, the force of her punch or her Mind or both flying towards the orcs; their armor and tough skin and skeletons were powerless in the face of the Empress’s power, their heads bursting or their entire bodies being flung away like feathers in the wind. Some orcs did die without having their brains destroyed, and new orcs were born, but the Empress simply continued her advance, throwing punches and destroying everything in her path.
Despite this, the orcs were relentless. The Dooms changed course, and the one firing at the trenches shifted towards the Empress. The hail of spikes concentrated, bringing down a barrage so brutal it would have destroyed a small fleet of warships.
Not a single spike reached the Empress. They blew away in the wind, they missed her entirely, they stopped centimeters from her face or she simply batted them away with the back of her hand. The spikes never touched her. Even the ground never touched her boots. She was cloaked in the storm flowing from her cape; the storm was her sword and her shield. Once again, she crouched. And once again, she jumped.
No longer did she appear like a bullet. She was a ray of light, bright and beautiful, hurtling towards the closest Doom like a ray of accursed lightning. Kilometers were crossed like mere meters. My eyes must have been playing tricks; the Empress flew into the Doom’s metal shell and out the other side, blood and liquid metal sloughing off her coat of storms. The Doom faltered, still active thanks to the Minds of the clump of orcs at its base, but with its internal pilot dead, we stood a chance to destroy it.
By now, not even a minute had passed. Silence had overtaken the back lines, the only sounds I could hear being the crash of thunder and the howling of the ever-deadlier wind. A wave of energy flowed through me, and I could feel those alongside me feel the same. It was like the ocean itself had swept away our fear and despair. Salty air and a fresh breeze wafted through my Mind, and although I wasn’t a fan of sailing on the sea, that blue expanse resonated with something deep inside me.
I kept my eyes trained on the Empress as I spoke. “Captain Ront.”
The man had been just as, if not more captivated than the rest of us. I knew few who were as enamored with the Empress as he was, so unless I said something, he might’ve stood and held his hand over his heart for the next few hours. My words nearly didn’t reach him, but maybe I underestimated how much he cared for my words, because he snapped his stupor to look at me.
“An unexpected miracle. I do not know why or how the Empress has arrived here, but she will surely not stay for long. Attention! Follow the lead of the Bloody Empress! She will guide us through the storm, and we will take this chance to advance. Send word! As long as the Empress is here, we cannot lose! Forward!”
“”Understood!””
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Discourse of the Damned
[THE WEST IS DAMN DANGEROUS]
“Hey Bear, is your message about the west getting more urgent? Annoying piece of shit won’t leave me alone.”
“Indeed Sir Beaver. Perhaps it may have something to do with this project of yours. It was already beginning to feel more concerned once we crossed the mountains, but it was only now that you so enthusiastically began to build that it has become so insistent.”
“Hell no. I need to build these dams, you know? I get stronger when I do. I don’t give a shit about the west stuff as long as I get strong enough to deal with whatever the messages are so uppity about.”
“But the last time you created one of your dams, did the humans not find and capture-“
“Shut up! That was because I wasn’t strong enough yet, obviously. Now that I’ve made several dams, my Ability is getting stronger, and I should be able to deal with whatever bullshit is so scary. Besides, haven’t you felt it? I know I have.”
“You mean the lessening pressure? Yes, it is true that I have felt it less, but that may not be a good thing. Whatever lives in that forest down there may just be hiding itself. It may even know we are here. Are you not afraid that they rely on the water from this river, and may come searching for why its flow has lessened?”
“Nah. Like I said, I’ll just be strong enough. And you better be strong enough, too. You been training like I told you? You better be.”
“Indeed I have, though my Ability seems unfit for my body. I feel most at ease when using Mind to enhance my physical strength, but my Ability is completely different.”
“Right. But that’s good. Look, your Ability is super weird, but that’s a good thing. When something is so specific like that, it means it must be really strong. Just get better at using your Mind for your strength at the same time as making the Ability work, and you’ll be able to protect me, no problem.”
“You are quite a selfish man, Sir Beaver.”
“So what? Everyone is selfish. There’s no such thing as the opposite. Even if you’re nice, it's for a selfish reason.”
“How pessimistic.”
“Damn right it is. Anyways, have you had any more of those dreams?”
“Hm…”
“No, I really believe you now. I mean, that crazy bird thing on the mountain turned out to be real, just like you said. Come on, tell me. I need to use you to your fullest.”
“You truly are a selfish man, Sir Beaver. Well, my dreams have become less focused as of late. More scattered. I have seen the continent, though not in its exact form. There are dark spots everywhere, like the ring of fire, or the city in the north, and especially this ruined forest nearby. There was a town I saw, one completely surrounded by lemons. It was terrifying, a place of fear and anxiety, and in my dream I saw it crumble to dust at the hands of two dark warriors, one small and one large. There is the city to the east, from where we came, and cities in the far west, full of confusion. But the focus of that dream was not those cities, but the island to the south, and the ocean trying to swallow those cities whole. Speaking of the southern island, it was there I saw my clearest vision. It was a man surrounded by books, sleepless and desperate. I saw exactly what he was studying; it was truly strange. Languages and structures, relics and maps, all connected to a person with long, willowy limbs and ears far sharper than any human I’ve yet seen in this world. But the final vision… It was the middle of the continent. A beacon, reaching into the heavens. The beacon shone silver and was surrounded by angels. And at the top, I saw a person. They beckoned me, and I wanted to join them, but I was pulled back to this accursed body by a mighty growl.”
“…You know, maybe I don’t believe your dreams after all. Except the last one. That’s legit.”
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The Ninth Plague
I desperately lapped at the puddle in the crack of the rock, not knowing when water would next drip from the stalactite above. If I didn’t drink the puddle fast enough, it would boil. I hated this goddamn cave. It was hot and dark and loud and completely lacking in ice cream. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for some soft serve. I’d take a popsicle at this point.
Suddenly, the rocks shuddered beneath me, and my heartbeat picked up. My ears twitched, and I flexed my throat, the only way I could see properly. I flapped my wings and prepared to take off and hang upside-down from my hidey-hole near the roof of the cave, but I paused. There was still water in the puddle, but a few more gulps of water weren’t worth encountering one of the dragons.
The sounds that bounced from the cave walls revealed a massive shape approaching. For a split second, I thought it was my friend, but I didn’t feel the scars or misshapen, tiny limbs, or the oversized ears and bulbous eyes. No, this was one of the well-breds. Without another moment’s hesitation, I took off, landed in my hole, and clasped my feet to the moss above. I wrapped myself in my wings and stayed still as can be, ignoring the other bats cowering nearby. One of them had scars all over its body, and I nearly lashed out. That was the fucker that tried to mate with me way back when I first arrived in this hell-hole. Before I could kick him out of my hiding spot, though, the cave rumbled, emanating a deep growl that shook me to my bones.
I could hear when the dragon turned the corner, but without echo-locating properly, there was no way for me to get the finer details and identify which dragon it might be. But in this case, I didn’t need to. The footsteps, the labored breathing, the unique smell of smoldering summer fruit. Just my luck. Not only was it one of the well-breds, it was one of the Saint Drivi, the closest confidants and advisors of those priestly guys. I then realized that the dragon’s footsteps weren’t the only ones moving about the cave. These were much quieter, more of a shuffle and a drag of a robe. Which meant one of the priests was here, too. Just my damn luck.
“Our visions are becoming clearer, Minister. The Ancestor grows anxious the longer the Dargonix is missing. It has told us that without it, the country will sputter to embers and be swallowed on both sides, by the sea and by the land. If you do not find it, divine retribution will fall upon not only the Valu, but the Valautu and the Valauroghtu as well. Even you may see consequences at Their great might.”
The dragon’s words were deep and solemn, and it was all I could do not to scoff at its idiocy. If I could see properly, I was sure the priest guy would also be trying to hold in a snort. As someone who lived in the dragons’ caves, I knew that whatever bullshit they spouted about their visions of the Dragon were total fabrications they convinced themselves were totally real. I was convinced the Ministers were well aware of that fact too, considering what I knew about them. But they placated the dragons and their fantasies for a million reasons I couldn’t even fathom.
With a start, I realized that the dragon’s voice was familiar. It was one of the first I had encountered when I was reborn in this cave as a bat, a massive beast that towered over every other creature in the caves, the humans barely being the size of its head. With scales of dull red, it was one of the few good-looking dragons around.
It was the same one that had betrayed me and nearly gotten me killed.
“Of course, oh Lord,” the priestess said. “The entire Ministry has been searching tirelessly. We believe the Dargonix is still within Dreva’s borders, and it is only a matter of time until the thief is captured. It would be a great boon if the Saint Drivi could use their wonderful gifts to assist us in our hunt. Even the smallest hint from the Dragon would do wonders.”
The woman’s voice dripped with contempt, though the dragon didn’t seem to notice. It was odd to me. From what I’d heard, Drevani worshiped dragons. And yet, at the very top of their organization were the Ministers, all thirteen of which seemed to hate the dragons who lived in the caves. They were apparently the only ones. It had confused me to no end; after all, why bother being the head of a religious organization if you hated them? Sure there would be some personal gain to be had, but wouldn’t they tire of the act? Become frustrated?
That was until I found out the truth. That the Ministers - or at least most of them - were the most ardent fanatics of anyone.
The dragon coughed, in a tone that definitely oozed pride. “Remember the teachings. The Ancestor values strength, intellect, and wisdom above all. It cannot give us all the answers. I know humans still desperately seek to attain our heights, but without the Dargonix it cannot be done. That is why it must be found.”
“…Of course. But on other matters, has the Dragon sent you any visions related to our list?”
“Hm? Oh, of course! Yes, of course. Ah, there was one. About the Human. Yes, it is quite angry indeed. Caution must be had when the Human is about. And the other items were mentioned as well. The ocean will indeed come to swallow our flames, if nothing is done. The Empress fights as we speak, always covered in the blood of her enemies. And the King! Yes, the King of the land hungers for more as he always does, eager to consume us.”
“Right. And the Everrail? The forest? The Spiral Spire?”
The dragon coughed again. This one was not prideful.
“Indeed, those have appeared as well. The Everrail, that transport, is, ah, vulnerable. Ripe for the taking, though you have continuously failed to do so. The forest is still dark, covered in ash and dead for centuries to come, of course. And the Spire-”
Suddenly, the dragon went silent. The priestess froze, and so did I, as if I wasn’t being still enough. The dragon actually knew something about that. It was rare, but they were still dragons. Sometimes their knowledge seemed to surpass what should be possible, whether because of some latent power they had or because the Dragon actually spoke to them, doubtful though it was. When the dragon next spoke, its voice was no longer that theatrical solemn tone, but a nervous quiver. The true face of dragons.
“The Spire calls to them. It flashes like lightning in the clouds, calling the lost ones home. The Human’s children, spread across the world, trapped. Helped by the traitors. They cannot be allowed to return, lest the Human’s reign reach the next plane. Two approach from the east. One fights desperately in the south. Two sit relaxed on the island. One advises in the west. A dozen have perished, stolen from the Human forever. Somewhere unknown the mysterious one lives, slowly enveloping the world in its home, the only one unswayed by the Spire’s call. And one… one is here.”
My breath caught in my throat as I felt both the dragon and the priestess spin around, surely searching for me. They knew I was here somewhere. If they caught me, they’d probably kill me.
What the dragon spoke of sent shivers down my spine. It was describing the hazy visions that sometimes crossed my eyes, of a silver tower flashing with bright light. Something about it felt comforting to me, but whenever it appeared, a distant screech pulled my attention back. Was that the Human calling me, like the dragon said? Who was the traitor that kept me trapped here?
Of course, I knew the answer to that question, even if I didn’t want to admit it. Because if I admitted the Bat had brought me back to life, I would have to accept that I died. And if I accepted I had died, I would acknowledge what had happened. The violence. Finally mustering the courage to leave him. Drinking just a little too much to celebrate. Celebrate and forget. Getting in my car. Driving.
The crash. The screams. My life leaving my body. And the final moments, when I saw that because of what I had done, an electrical pole had broken, had fallen, and hurt someone who had just been walking by.