Yesterday

Kal stopped his work. He looked out over the field and the task still ahead of him. He’d been at it all week, ever since returning from his fruitless confrontation with the Godknight. And he’d still only cleared a small portion of the dead ferkle.

He wiped at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. Another sunny, cloudless day in Brightholme. A perfect day, he thought sardonically. Perfect if you didn’t mind the sun beating down on you while you toiled away.

But he had to keep moving. The farm was in trouble. More importantly, his mother was in trouble. He didn’t know what he could do about that. The only thing he could think of was to work. Clear the ferkle first, then plant some common sense.

He heard a loud squawk and looked towards the barn. A chicken scurried out of the barn, flapping its wings and racing every which way. A moment later, his mother emerged, chasing after it, almost tripping on the hem of her dirty dress. The same dress she’d been wearing for days.

It might have been a comical scene. It should have been a comical scene. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was heartbreaking.

He glared down at the dirt. If only there was a way he could bring this whole mess to a merciful end.

He turned to the west. Towards Old Mother and the rolling hills beyond. He couldn’t see any of it from the farm, of course. But he could see it in his mind’s eye. Standing by Old Mother, hearing the roar of the water rushing by. Looking out at those hills, wondering what lay beyond them.

He was struck with a feeling of deep longing, followed almost immediately by a feeling of hopelessness.

Oh, how he wanted to know what was beyond those hills.

Because, surely, it had to be better than this.

Jaina did a little twirl, the bottom of her dress flowing outwards as she did. She giggled and covered her mouth, feeling just a tiny bit silly.

The dress was beautiful. Hand sewn by her mother, who seemed nearly as excited as Jaina was about her upcoming nuptials.

Everyone was excited. Jaina herself, her mother, father and brothers, her fellow Solicitors. Stegran, his Peacekeeper corp, his father.

It was only Stegran’s mother who was on the fence. She wasn’t against it, exactly. She didn’t dislike Jaina. She just hadn’t been fully convinced yet.

But Jaina was giddy all the same, pumped up on love and wedding plans. She was sure her soon-to-be mother-in-law would come around. How could she not? Surely she’d be able to see how much she loved her son. She certainly couldn’t hide it. Didn’t want to.

Stegran would be taking her to dinner at his parents’ house that night, and though they hadn’t spoken about it, Jaina felt like this was her best chance. To finally win his mother over. Her own mother had even made her a dress, just for this occasion.

It was beautiful. Jaina’s mother was an amazing seamstress. She couldn’t wait to see what her mother would do with her wedding dress.

Everything was coming together. Her job, her fiance, her family. The wedding to come, the marriage right after. Then children, of course. A family of her own.

She was flying high. There was nothing standing in the way of a beautiful, happy future ahead.

Lilly was antsy. She was in the City Center again, selling another edition of the Paper. But in the days since her conversation—no, argument—with her father, her feelings of dread had only grown. As had her desire to get out of Brightholme and start searching for some truths.

She didn’t belong here. It was nice enough, sure. Safe and calm. Nothing bad ever happened. But something was gnawing at her. It’d been there, she realized, since she was a child. As the years passed she had found ways to combat it, some more successful than others. The Paper was only the latest thing.

Lilly was bored.

There was no way around it, no way to fancy it up. Yes, she really did want to find out if there was some kind of a threat to Brightholme on the horizon. And maybe just see for herself what it was really like out there. But most of all, she just wanted something—anything—to alleviate this chronic monotony.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Windham, making his daily appearance. He was behaving strangely, though, glancing around furtively as if he was being followed. She thought about asking him what was bothering him, but decided not to. Because he might tell her. And she was already sick of being bored.

They talked a bit. Small talk, mostly, about the Paper and the goings-on around Safehaven. Windham continued to act weird, seeming almost paranoid.

And, boy, was he sweating a lot. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the day was warm enough. But he was practically dripping wet.

Something was off with him, that was for sure. But she didn’t let it bother her. Whatever it was, she was sure he’d get over it. And just as sure he’d be right back in this spot tomorrow, trying just as hard.

Ayla shot up in her bed, hand clamped over her mouth. If she screamed, she’d be kicked out of the house again. Not that the cramped straw cot that passed for her bed was any better than her spot in the woods. Her feet hung over the edge and the putrid smell of the outhouse just a few feet away assaulted her senses. Still, she had a roof over her head. There was that.

She’d been dreaming again. She’d decided to stop calling them visions, even in her own private thoughts. Was trying to convince herself that her mother was right, and they were dreams, nothing but dreams. Because she certainly, obviously, simply could not be having visions.

This one had been just as vivid as the other visions she’d been having of late. Vivid… yet also different.

The screams were the same. Endless screams of people in pain and in terror. But in this vision—this dream—she had been completely engulfed by darkness. Oppressive, impenetrable darkness.

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And then something had emerged. Slowly revealing itself, an unnatural glow emanating from somewhere behind it.

Ayla could discern nothing about the entity. Not its size, not its shape. Nothing. The only thing she could identify were the tentacles. They moved and swayed from the light in the darkness. Searching. Searching.

Searching for her.

And, from somewhere close, a disembodied cry for help.

A dream, Ayla reminded herself. Only a dream.

But she’d never dreamed of tentacles before. Had only ever seen such a thing in a picture book once as a young child, and even then it had only been a fleeting image. How was she envisioning something so vividly that she’d only ever seen in passing?

Imagination, she thought. Pure and simple. Dreams weren’t visions. They were imagination run wild.

She didn’t know if that made her feel better. Only that she was tired. She hadn’t been sleeping well, constantly being awakened by vis—

By dreams.

She had chores to do. Mother would be swooping in any second, scolding her for sleeping too long or some other imagined offense.

But Ayla didn’t have the energy. She had never refused to do chores. Such an idea was beyond her ability to consider. But today was different. Today she just… couldn’t.

So she sneaked away. Ducking and scurrying, avoiding all contact, all eyes.

She made her way to her safe place. Her home. Her Spot. The one tiny place she’d ever felt at peace. She was grateful for it. Her family was horrible. Her life was horrible. This spot… This spot was…

Nice.

Her spot was nice.

And no vision, dream, or nightmare would ever be able to change that.

Enek’Chok, Master of War, stood in front of his army. The camp had been dismantled, the beasts corralled, the troops mobilized. Night was falling; they’d be moving soon, ready to strike at first light.

He allowed himself to savor the moment. He had fought in countless battles, countless wars, in his many years. It had only been the last few decades that he’d found his true purpose with The Order of the Holy Ascension. And with Lord Malphor, Master of All.

So many of the troops before him had come from this place, this “bright home.” They had all been exiled. “Sent down river,” they called it. But the Masters had long ago set up a way station of their own “down river,” well away from Brightholme, intercepting those poor bastards as they rushed aimlessly down the river. They’d offered those exiles a place. A home. A purpose. If the offer had been turned down, that was fine. They were wished well and left to their own devices, as the Godknight had intended.

But that had been rare. Most had been more than willing to swear allegiance to Malphor, the Masters and the Order. So many had been hungry for redemption.

So many more, for revenge.

They were motivated, which pleased Enek’Chok.

He allowed himself a brief moment for his own, personal reflection. He considered who he had once been, how far he had come since then. Where he was now, the station and position he had earned as a Master of the Order.

But he wasn’t one to dwell on the past; his thoughts shifted to what was ahead.

The Ascension.

And with The Ascension would come immortality. And power unimaginable.

But even though he had reached the peak of the path of the Order and was considered a Master Ascendant, the actual Ascension remained unattainable. Lord Malphor was nearly as powerful as the Godknight. In some ways, perhaps, even more so. But neither Malphor or the Godknight had enough power to complete the Ascension. To grant true immortality.

To do that, Lord Malphor would need the Godknight’s power. To add to his own.

The Godknight. That accursed pox on all the world. The unbeatable foe.

About to be beaten. And beaten by him.

Enek’Chok looked down from his tower, smaller and far less indulgent than the Godknight’s ode to himself. He gave his personal psychic, Tua Aoy, a look and a nod. She didn’t need to read his mind to know he was ready; she was as closely connected to him as anyone in the world, save for, perhaps, Lord Malphor himself.

It wouldn’t do to try to address all 50,000 troops at once by simply shouting. In addition to the obvious acoustical impossibility, shouting and cheering would nullify the element of surprise that they still held. Psychics were indispensable in these times, just as they would be in battle. The perfect way to relay orders. The perfect form of communication.

He “thought” at Tua, and she then “translated” to the troops.

‘My friends. You all have your orders. You’ve been briefed. You’ve trained. You’re ready. Every one of you will play a part in this, the most glorious campaign in history.’

He looked out at them, those who he could see. His psychic projected his image to those who could not.

‘He was supposed to protect us,’ Enek’Chok continued. ‘All of us. But he didn’t. He abandoned us—abandoned you—taking with him only his chosen few. The cowards who agreed to lap at his bootheels.

‘Look at what has happened to the world since he left it! Look at what happened to all of you!’

Voices began to swell. This was a particularly dangerous moment; this address was crucial for morale, and allowing his people to embrace their emotions was part of what made them who they were. But too much noise would kill the carefully cultivated advantage of surprise.

‘Softly, my friends,’ he thought. He smiled, and Tua conveyed his good humor of the moment. It calmed and reassured them.

But it was time to ramp it up.

‘All of you,’ he continued, allowing his thoughts to scream with the fervor his voice could not. ‘Whether you were exiled from this place for some petty misdeed, or were found scrabbling on your hands and knees in the wretched wastes of what had once been a glorious world. You were all abandoned, by the very guardian that was sent to protect you.

‘And then came Lord Malphor.’ He paused. Through Tua he could feel what his people were feeling. Their gratitude, there loyalty, their fealty to the Master of All.

‘He gave you a home. He gave you a purpose. And, now, he has given you opportunity.

‘The Godknight is weak. For the first time, he is vulnerable. And we are prepared. This, my friends, is our time. Our moment.’

He gestured towards Brightholme. ‘And this will be our land!’

‘We will take it, my friends. This narcissistic false god has rejected you. Prevented you from enjoying the same advantages he has given to his sheep. But he has no right!

‘It is time, my friends. To live the words and abide by your pledges. All the things the Godknight denies you, Lord Malphor and the Order of the Holy Ascension grant you. Hatred. Revenge.

‘I say embrace your hate! Take your revenge! There is nothing wrong with these things! It is these things that makes us strong, stronger than anyone else in this world. Including the Godknight, who will soon fall.

‘Take his city! Take his country! Take it, and make it yours! Because it is yours! It is yours, because you deserve it.

‘And take it… because you can.

‘Take it for our cause. Take it for the Holy Ascension. Take it for Lord Malphor, the Master of All.

‘Take it for yourselves!’

In Godknight Tower, the Godknight slept.

He had never needed sleep before.

But he had grown so tired…