Chapter Eleven // The Union
FOR YOU, THE WORLD WILL BE MADE RIGHT.
Arha was staring at that inscription just twenty hours before Tekarn would do the same, her countenance unreadable. She was clad now in a dark-blue gambeson, gloves on and eyepatch changed and scabbard hanging like a stalactite from her belt. No longer could she possibly be mistaken for a villager; she cut now a stark and imposing figure, her every movement and expression performed with utter surety.
This was, without a doubt, a woman within whom a great and terrible sense of importance now swelled. The epitaph before her was as much a promise to Nageth as it was a demand of herself. And what a ridiculous prospect it was, this task she had set upon herself. Something so abstract and grand that it could only exist as an immaterial fantasy of the mind. Before her now loomed a mountain she could not possibly scale.
Arha's jaw set hard with determination.
A whispered goodbye - and then she turned, looked to see Olta waiting with folded arms and a gentle expression.
"You ready?" he asked.
Arha nodded her head.
There were hard conversations to be had.
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The village was buzzing with activity and bordering upon open chaos as Arha and Olta strode side-by-side along the street, their hands clasped firmly together. The situation was a dire one, for retribution from the Winnowers was all but inevitable, and thus it was Seko who had made the call for the Voshtarri to uproot themselves once more. Hiega had explained to Arha the existence of a network of caves running along the outskirts of the Blackwoods, whereupon their people could shelter for months on end. A temporary solution, in lieu of the permanent one that Arha was now charged with bringing.
When Arha had questioned how the Voshtarri could possibly be equipped to survive a trek through the Blackwoods, Seko had merely chuckled and tapped one of his curled horns.
"We, too, are children of the forest," he had told her. "Blessed Al'Varok yet holds sway within these woods."
This was another reason, now, that Arha's impossible task had been made paramount - only when the Winnowers were eradicated could the Voshtarri finally return to their ancestral home. Every man, woman, and child of the Voshtarri would be waiting with bated breath for her return.
She paused, now, just outside Zekval and Illina's shared hut. She reached for the door - hesitated.
Her heart hadn’t quite broken, when Olta had informed her that Zekval was to be a father. But it had certainly fractured, a hairline fissure now running along its surface like one of Arha’s many scars.
I’ll add it to my list of sins, she thought bitterly to herself. Just another one she would have to repay, in time.
And so, she stepped inside and found a Zekval in remarkably improved condition, though nevertheless a Zekval who walked with a pained expression and was frequently out of breath. He looked up at her with a small, wounded smile, and the fissure in Arha’s heart only deepened.
"I'm sorry-" she tried to say, at the sight of him. "I should have come sooner-" But Zekval dismissed her concerns with a deadpan remark and the two old friends embraced, for a time, before Arha stepped back and steeled herself for what was to come.
"You're going to be a father," she said, because she couldn't help herself.
"Yeah," Zekval replied, scratching at the back of his neck. That one word was imbued with equal parts brilliant joy and abject terror.
"That's insane."
"Right?!" Zekval blurted out, breaking into a sudden, joyous laugh, and for a moment the two were neophytes-in-arms once more. And then, somberly, Arha forced herself to quit stalling.
She told Zekval of The Union, of Seko and Darrack Fayne's decades-long dream. Of wrongs made right, of redemption and duty and of a moral imperative. She spoke of plans, of resolutions, of grand strategies and of fire and of brimstone and as she spoke the vise around her heart was squeezing tighter and tighter. And then she forced herself to say something at once utterly vile and indisputably true:
"If we don't do this," she told him, "your child will never be safe."
He didn't fight her on it. His expression was one of sad resignation.
"I know," he said, quietly. And then: "I'm going to miss the birth."
Arha did not do him the indignity of offering an apology. She merely waited, and listened. It was all she had to offer him.
"I hate killing, Ar," Zekval said, after a long moment. His voice broke. "Did you know that?"
"I suspected, yes."
"Killing people, hurting people." Zekval's hands trembled. "It’s sickening. I don't do it because I want to. I do it because I have to. That part of my brain where the feelings come from-" he tapped his skull, "-I just turn it off and do the work, and I do it because the work needs to be done."
Arha did not interrupt.
"My brother's death was my fault," Zekval said, looking Arha dead in the eye. His voice did not waver. "I owe him this."
Again, she did not do him the indignity of telling him otherwise.
The two embraced again, offered each other kind words - exchanged jokes tainted inextricably with sadness, with resignation - and then Arha and Olta departed.
Just like that, her half-brother was a member of The Union. Now, it was time to speak with her half-sister.
They found her in the midst of a hut strewn wildly with supplies - rations, equipment, maps, and of course a great deal of weaponry. It was as literal a representation of a scattered, chaotic mind as one was like to find. She was midway through packing a rucksack when Arha coughed at the door - which had been left wide open in all the chaos and fuss.
Before Arha could even get a word in Makran was already across the room and already wrapping the other woman in a fierce hug, telling her she was sorry she was so, so sorry but she had to do this and she had to go and, as with Zekval, Arha pulled away - this time with greater difficulty, but this time with a smile upon her face as well.
"May I suggest an alternative?" she offered. And when she was done explaining, Makran was hugging her again, and this time she was telling Arha in no uncertain terms that she was a fucking idiot for ever thinking she'd even need to ask and yes, of course Makran would join her. And Olta, who had in both exchanges opted to remain silent and unobtrusive, now found himself in one of Makran's bone-crushing hugs as well.
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"We're gonna do this shit," Makran declared, grinning and crying all at once. "For Nageth. We're gonna get these fucking bastards."
A crude sentiment, perhaps - but keenly felt.
And thus preparations were underway. And when Arha finally emerged from her hut with rucksack slung over her shoulder, ready to depart, she was surprised to find Hiega waiting there with a cloth-swaddled bundle in hand.
"It is an old and terrible thing," Hiega explained, as Arha pulled the wrapping free to reveal a saber with a blade of gleaming silver, its hilt wrapped in soft, well-worn blue fabric. "Weighed down by the souls of countless dead. It is only with great sorrow that I present it to you now."
Arha took the sword in hand and knew at once that this was the weapon by which the Worm Cult would meet its end. The weight was so well-balanced that it was as though it hardly even existed at all, as though it were truly an extension of her own arm. It was as though it had been perfectly crafted for her and her alone. She felt at once that his blade was but a long-last part of her that had finally, finally returned home.
"Her name is Shrike," Hiega said. "She is a necessary evil."
Arha didn't ask how Hiega had come across such a weapon. Didn't ask about the grisly scar running diagonal across the older woman's face. Didn't ask about the troubled past displayed in her bunched shoulders, in her tensed neck, in her perpetually wary glare. She just took the sword and said thank you, and for Hiega that was more than enough.
Elsewhere, Zekval and Illina held each other in tight, shuddering embrace. Neither said a word. They wept, together, for a future that might never come to pass.
Elsewhere, Makran sat in the dirt, her forehead pressed against Nageth's memorial plate. She laughed bitterly and told him of the gory end that Kelsen would meet, in time. She told him that they would be back soon.
Elsewhere, Olta knelt in meditation, his sword laid out before him. He thought of his father's booming laugh, of his mother's beautiful songs, of rowdy family breakfasts and of quiet, gentle nights. He thought of Al'Varok, powerful beyond compare, and how he submitted to oblivion with love in his heart and a smile upon his face. He thought of honor, of duty, of humility. Of sacrifice. And he held these things within him, a totem of feeling and thought from which in his darkest hours he could still call upon for strength.
Time was running short. The Worm's teeth were drawing near.
The four of them were assembled, now, in the center of the village, unseen and unnoticed amidst the chaos of an upending civilization. Armed and armored to the teeth, each sporting a pack laden heavy with rations and a small supply of Voshtarri river-water. Illina was gone, her goodbyes with Zekval having been said in private. She could not face his departure head-on and, in truth, neither could he. It was only Seko and Hiega who were present to see them off.
"My son," Seko smiled, laying a bony hand upon Olta's shoulder. "Know that we will always be proud of you. You alone walk with the courage of noble Al'Varok."
"Thank you," was all Olta could manage in reply, as he felt himself suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. The Elder leaned forward, then - pressed something small and hard and cold into Olta's gloved hand.
"A shard of Al'Varok's bone," Seko whispered, his hands trembling as he released Olta's own. "A thing of great power, even in death. I pray that in dark times it may protect you."
"Thank you," Olta said again. This time, the words were laden heavy with genuine awe as the Voshtarri held a fragment of a dead god within his hands. Already the shard was beginning to warm within his palm.
"And, if I may, a warning," Seko said - and then the Elder was close, so close that only Olta could possibly hear as Seko whispered the following into his ear:
"Tread carefully. The dead Worm yet dreams."
It would be some time before Olta would truly come to understand those words.
Further goodbyes were exchanged between them all - blessings and thanks and hopes for the future and promises of great change to come. Arha looked Seko dead in the eyes and promised the old man that she would indeed earn it, to which he gave her a sly smile and merely replied that he knew.
The entire village was watching, now, as The Union departed, making their way through a verdant plain of silent, waving grass. The sun shone vibrant overhead, and the breeze against their faces was warm and bolstering. Their hearts were thick with courage and conviction both, their minds set firmly upon the promises they had made. They were, in that moment, just the very beginning of a vast and powerful wave.
And then, without hesitation, they stepped into a realm of suffocating shadow.
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Getting out of the Blackwoods was, it turned out, a great deal easier than getting in. It helped to have a guide.
There had been a few incursions, at the start - snakelike creatures that dropped gibbering and wailing from the dead branches above, six-legged split-jaw apes that vomited black poison. A great boar, shuddering and mad, its body populated by far too many maddened, bloodshot eyes. But soon the forest began to still once more, as if becalmed by Olta's very presence - even the creatures that did attack seemed to keep a respectful distance from the Voshtarri warrior.
And so, the journey through the Blackwoods ceased to be a battle and instead became just that - a journey. Spirits were high as the members of the Union trudged on, with Zekval cracking jokes and Makran laughing uproariously and Arha and Olta muttering to one another in the quiet commiseration of two people addicted to one another's presence. The guilt of failure, of past crimes, of Nageth's death - all faded to the background in favor of the great task laid out before them. Every step was real, tangible progress towards something better.
That first night, they camped out in the hollow of a felled tree, permitting themselves a small fire as cold streaks of rain began to dribble down in irregular rhythm from the featureless sky above. Stories were exchanged, over warmth and a dinner of dried jerky - and, to Arha's surprise, it was Olta who held court that night, captivating the three Winnowers with tales of daring hunts and adolescent brawls. There was a time, Arha came to learn, when Olta had not been the serious and disciplined pillar he was now - but a brash, fiery, outspoken young man with a strong sense of right and wrong.
Later, after the fire had gone out and Zekval and Makran were long asleep, Arha was laying on her stomach while Olta traced the scars along her back.
His touch was delicate, gentle as it carried across a latticework of pain, of a lifetime of adversity and suffering. Golden child or no, Arha's early life had been one of grueling difficulty. There were as many battle wounds there, upon her flesh, as there were whip-scars.
"Punishment, sometimes," Arha said, when he inevitably asked. "And sometimes just to help build a tolerance to pain."
"Al'Varok's breath," Olta muttered, shaking his head. He couldn't see her scars, in the all-enveloping darkness of the Blackwoods, but he could feel the ridges and bumps where her skin deformed. "You were a child."
"Adolescent, for much of it," Arha shrugged, casual as could be. And Olta understood, then, the true gulf between them. He could never fight like a Winnower because he had not suffered like a Winnower. Violence and death had been all but etched upon their bodies at a young age, and they - a legion of orphans - had grown up in a world where strength was the only way to survive. The thought of it sickened him.
"That man," Olta said, declared, without thinking, "was no father."
"Who?" Arha turned, squinted up at his scarcely-visible silhouette. "Tekarn?"
"How dare he call himself such," Olta confirmed. "To steal a child, and to knowingly inflict this upon them..." He was almost surprised at the anger bubbling and the outrage bubbling up inside him. "The Winnowers robbed you of your childhood, just as they robbed me of mine."
"He never did," Arha said quietly, her expression masked by the dark. "Call himself my father. It was just master and pupil."
"Bastard," Olta growled. "You didn't deserve it, Arha. Any of it."
Arha didn't reply. And so Olta pulled her into an embrace, and she allowed herself to melt into his arms, her head resting easily against his chest. The beat of his heart was a calm, soothing rhythm, like the lapping of waves again and again against the sand. All the world narrowed to a single point, as it so often did between two people - and when one of them was rapidly falling into sleep.
"I'm sorry," he said, perhaps to her, perhaps to the world, as he stroked her hair and stared out at a void of stygian black.
"Don't be," Arha said groggily, her thoughts vanishing before the oblivion of slumber. "I'm gonna...fix it."
"I believe you," Olta whispered, holding her close.
That night, Arha dreamt - as always of gnashing teeth, of a gaping maw that swallowed whole her friends, her lover, the countless people she had sworn to protect. Thousands of faceless victims huddled in a terrified mass within that fat and undulating stomach, their cries silent but their mouths formed the shape of her name, again and again. She dreamt of a lolling tongue and she dreamt of eyes like the night sky and she dreamt of a hunger without end.
All the while, Olta stood sentinel by her side, stroking her hair, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he waited unfalteringly for anything that might disturb her momentary peace.
He did not feel it, then, but the shard of bone in his pocket was white-hot.