Percival swung a wood axe, breaking the cabinet into pieces. The furniture probably once tied a room together. A more practical use laid ahead. He tucked the kindling under his arm and brought it to a bonfire in one of the citadel’s many courtyards. Crisp echoes traveled from all over the citadel; the work of other groups doing the same thing.
He tossed the material into the flames. To his sides, civilians huddled, rubbing their tremulous hands together. A group of them had formed a small gathering to protect the suckling bundle slung around the chest of a young mother. Percival heard the babe’s quiet cries between the crackling of the bonfire. A good sign.
A false optimism. The time was coming. He was sure of it. Rivers of frost had slathered the citadel. Flowing ripples of cold, translucent crystal jumped from spire to spire like winged eels frozen in an instant of time. The ice was the densest at the highest tower. It didn’t take a mage to understand what had happened.
There was an adage he had heard from the caster apprentices: “A Highcaster beset by their friends is a Highcaster at their weakest”. It was the kinder version of the saying.
A speck of stinging cold pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up, reaching out with an open palm. It was snowing in wine season.
“Prepare yourself.”
Percival jumped. The plates of his armor chafed, drawing attention from the citizenry. He excused himself, set down the axe, and moved himself away from the bonfire.
“Tireliam?” He said.
“Too soon? I haven’t yet identified what was possessing you, but rest assured I won’t stop your heart.”
“What are you planning next? The people can’t take much more of this.”
“I will soon be committing to the embarkation Spell. Expect silence till then.”
“…Listen, sir. I-”
“Come to the main antechamber in ten minutes. Be discreet.” A pause. “You’ve inspired me to try at the very least. But the next time Vulkachires attacks is when the last of Aldren’s citizens meet their end.”
“Are you truly unable to stop his creatures?”
“It’s not about whether I couldn’t,” Tireliam corrected. “If the late emperor wanted a chance at winning he shouldn’t have recalled me to the capital.”
“Right…”
“Nine minutes.”
“Wait!” But the connection had gone. Percival curled his fingers into a fist. He knew where the embarkation was to happen, an antechamber within the citadel. A removed place far away from the bonfire, away from prying eyes. It would be an unceremonious farewell. He had wanted to tell Tireliam his intentions face to face. Fallen or not, the empire needed its hero. But he had to admit he was stalling the confrontation, mostly because he already knew what the answer would be.
How long would he last out here? Even he was shivering. The effects of the Spell Tireliam had casted lingered. A group of men by one of the branches of ice attempted to melt it with torches. When that failed they tried chipping at it with pickaxes. The holes would fill in with fresh ice. Even the snowflakes that fell now hung onto its shape for countable moments when they fell into the bonfire.
The double doors to their courtyard swung open from a low kick. Civilians jumped to their feet as a squad of soldiers marched through. Shock fell upon Percival’s face.
The leader of the group stepped up.
“Fear not, we bring hope.” He pointed at Percival. “And this man is the key.”
“Barathon, what the hell are you doing?” Percival shouted.
“Tireliam has a way out of this city. And he has given our hero Lord Mason a place in his ark.”
Murmurs among the citizenry. Those quiet exchanges were the truth-killer. Percival’s heart grew cold. He needed to act quickly.
“What are you planning to do, old friend?” He said, his voice low.
“Like I said. Maybe I have a way out,” Barathon replied. “I’m not fixing to die yet.”
“You-”
Percival was interrupted by a touch on his shoulder. An older man, once-farmer by the looks of the knots on his hand and sunburnt skin, wore a face twisted by pleading.
“Lord Mason, is this true?” The old man asked.
“…Yes.” Percival turned to face the sparse crowd. The citizens left the bonfire to gather around him. “I was offered to leave with the Highcaster. But I have elected to stay with you.”
“Why you and not any of us?” A concerned citizen said. “Why weren’t we offered?”
“Fucking magekin,” A tanner said with a growl. He spat at the utterance of the word. “They never cared about us. They’re just looking out for themselves.”
No different than any one of us. Percival kept that to himself.
“Like I said,” he said, louder. “I’m not going.”
“How do we know?”
“Here I stand before your eyes,” Percival said. He kept his stance firm, confident. The people paid little attention to his appearance of commitment. The rumor was spreading, and he already began to hear twisted versions of the story.
Barathon’s men cleared the path as they walked towards him. The soldiers flanked Percival, their hands relaxed by their sides. Their restraint was obvious. He wondered what Barathon had said to restore just an iota of decorum back to the soldiery.
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“Come,” Barathon said. He raised a hand, bending his fingers in a beckoning motion.
Percival glanced at his citizens. He understood their emotions, perhaps he even shared them in part. Their minds were empty save for that sliver of hope allowing their escape from the city. These were his wards, the men, women, and children heroes were charged to protect. From the moment the flat of the emperor’s sword laid on his shoulder to the day he breathed his last. For he was the empire’s standard.
And he was disappointed.
He knew what Barathon wanted, so without another word he began walking to the embarkation point with the soldiers and the civilians close behind. Through winding, empty corridors he led the empire, thinking. The citizens behind him were varied. Farmers, leatherworkers, masons, wives, babes, and toddlers. The soldiers were all new recruits; the veterans have long been expended, save for the celebrated warriors like him and Barathon.
The war had allowed him the privilege of meeting the noblest souls. The most amazing tacticians and insightful of poets were among those he fought beside. The sharpest scholars assisted the war planning. The keenest eyes and sharpest of wit gathered intelligence, so their steel would have a target. And the most empathetic men were their shields. They were all gone. Only Percival remembered them. They gave their lives so these last dregs of Aldren could clamber for the slightest chance they might live. None of the citizens had bothered to run to tell the other gatherings Tireliam was planning to leave. The why was simple; the more refugees fighting for a spot on this ‘ark’, the less chance each of them had of making it.
These were the kind of people Percival had pledged to protect.
They rounded the last corner and arrived at the antechamber. Even without the voice’s affliction Percival could feel the heavy weight of arcanery on his skin. Aldren’s mages were gathered there surrounding a tall figure at the center. Tireliam turned.
“Ah… you’ve brought friends,” the Highcaster said.
Barathon stepped forward, hand grasped on the hilt of his sword.
“I’ve nothing against your kind, mage,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “We just want to see our sons and daughters grow, and find new soil to call home. We all deserve that much.”
Tireliam wasn’t paying attention. He was engaged in an inaudible disagreement with the purple-robed mage by his side. One of his students spoke up, a young-looking man in the white robe of an apprentice.
“You’d come here and start making demands of us?” He said.
“I request to be allowed to live,” Barathon said. “Is that so inconvenient a demand?”
“Oh please, before us magekin proved we had a use to sell, you mundanes made our very existence a demand on your conscience.”
“Young man, those-”
“I’m older than you.”
“Then with the benefit of your years, you must lend wisdom to your fellows.” Barathon beckoned a citizen to come forth from the crowd. A young boy holding tightly on a ruined bedside doll looked back at his guardian as he walked forward. An uncertain look persisted on his face. Barathon continued, “These youth are free of any crime against your people. Can you forgive their forebears and let their children live?”
The man had sides Percival had never known. The apprentice mage was showing hesitation; whatever motivated the confrontation ran dry. He turned to Tireliam, who seemed to have finished his quarrel with the Divinator. Malidy appeared as unsurprised as ever, perhaps even mildly amused.
“Begin,” Tireliam said.
The mages were slow to start, taking moments to exchange glances. Tireliam waited with the patience of a poised lion. Under the gaze of his furrowed brow, the mages began their work. Space began to fold and tear at the edges of an invisible arena surrounding them. The citizens were panicking, talking loudly amongst themselves in outrage. Percival did not know what could be said. He remained silent.
“Why do you leave us here?” A mother asked. “Have you no sympathy?”
“You magekin haven’t changed. Heartless monsters,” the tanner barked.
Tireliam slid past his cadres to stand in front of the chattering crowd. They were not cowed. His presence before them seemed to reinforce their anger. They even began to step forward.
Percival grasped Barathon’s pauldron.
“Stop this,” he said.
The captain shook his head. “I behaved as anyone should. No man should lay down and accept death. You used to have this gumption.”
“Barathon you-”
Tireliam raised his hand. “Enough.”
And no more words were spoken by the crowd. The citizens entered fits of profuse coughing, hands wrapped around their throat.
“Lord Mason, step forward,” the Highcaster said.
“Apologies for the lateness in doing so, but I came here to refuse.”
“You were never in the position to do so,” was the instant reply. Tireliam raised his voice. It boomed in the enclosure of the antechamber. “We cannot take all of you. Not won’t. This is an embarkation Spell. It rips its occupants across thousands of miles in an instant. Did you think a mundane could survive that?”
Barathon had been spared the sudden soreness of throat. He did not hesitate to interject.
“Isn’t it worth an attempt if we would die here anyways?”
“You are all weight, Captain. We bring your hero because Percival is not of this universe. His success in the battlefield was not the preordained gift of God to Aldren; it comes from a preternatural strength we need to study the source of. You, Captain, survived on shrewdness, smarts, and luck. Like most survivors of this blasted war we advised the emperor not to take.
“All of you feel so much animosity towards us magekin-” Tireliam scowled at the word. “-but none of you bothered to study the Art of Casting. Not even in theory. We recommended it to the Empirial Pedagogy. They refused because of its boredom and lack of practicality in your lives. We distributed our books, and you citizens mocked its content. Your children made our children’s lives hell. Still we fought and died for you, and these numbers with me now are all that remained of us. If you had at least tried to understand us, you wouldn’t be here begging for the impossible.
“I’m telling you all this because you might survive. The Faleri might, just might, show mercy once they no longer feel our presence in the citadel. If you do, you will be enslaved into Faleria. You will find to your shock and horror, that mundane and mage mingle there, as they have for centuries. You might learn then why Aldren lost so handedly.”
A force lifted Percival off the floor. The hero of Aldren turned his head to regard Barathon one last time. The Captain appeared nonplussed.
“It was worth a shot,” Barathon said. “Did you know?”
“Yes,” Percival said. “I read some of their texts when we were deployed, remember? Thought I’d at least get to know who we were fighting beside.”
“I see.” The Captain smiled. “Good luck.”
“Likewise.”
Percival was ferried midair into the confines of the circle, which was now rippling with power. The Spell was near completion.
“I take no pleasure from this,” Tireliam said as the light neared its apex.
“I believe you. Is there really no other way?”
“I have spent the past few months thinking, experimenting with a way to embark the mundane. It is not possible to my knowledge.”
“Figures.”
Wails drew their attention. The mother in the crowd pushed against Barathon’s corral, thrusting her bundle forward.
“Please take my daughter!” She was screaming. “Please! Just her! Please take her!”
“You’re right,” Percival said. “They don’t listen.”
“In time, all humans learn to.”
“By then we’d be decrepit.”
“It is as it has always been for all sapient races: wisdom is wasted on the elderly.”
Light flashed. The crowd was pushed back by a shockwave. And the mages were gone. A plume of smoke rose from the center of a shallow crater in the floor, still burning with arcane exertion. For fleeting moments light played tricks in the room. Then space unbent and returned to normal. The embarkation was complete.
Wordlessly, Barathon left his men and the citizens. Slow steps took him out of the antechamber and back to the winding halls. He ignored the pleas for orders and the citizens’ begging. The wailing behind him dulled to a faint mumble, for he was lost in the mirage of his past, waiting patiently for his history’s end.