An eastbound wind rose and fell beneath the torrent of a midday storm. Underneath this downpour of rainwater lied Farmers Field, home to the naively intrepid farmers of Nalasteia, Capital of an old fading Empire. These fields, located just outside those ancient round walls of old-grey stone that stretched far up and around, drenched in the inordinate amount of rainwater released from above. Unlike the citizens hidden behind these walls, the farmers weren’t afforded the same protection from this deluge. Only their crops were. Inside these walls though, through small spires of black that rose upwards, the citizens were shielded by arcane magistry from the rainstorm. But despite the protection afforded, not all was well within. For hidden behind these walls lied the disheveled shanties of the lower ends. Called home by its peoples and the lower three-parts by others. It was a place steeped in the foulest of odors and rich in its poverty. It is here, within these streets of gloom and dilapidated terraced homes, that the lower ends people lived out their lives. And within these malodorous streets mired in a cacophony of shouts by the ever-wakeful drunks of the district, lived they unnoticed.
But this was not so for all parts of the empire’s capital. Though these streets housed the neglected, abused, and abandoned, life beyond these murky streets bettered largely. For all that truly remained within the lower ends were the remains of a once-forgotten dream. And it was there, hidden between mounds of waste and filth that hopes for change were laid to rest within a tomb of empty dreams. Beyond these dead and forgotten streets patrolled still by baton and sword wearing officers in light grey, life bettered. But only slightly. The homes no longer half-finished and dilapidated, but this place, though richer, was still part of the lower district. These ends were the upper parts of the three-parts. Though cleaner and slightly better, this was still a place of the neglected. Still malodorous, but now only due to its proximity to the shanties. Here lived the working women dressed in gowns of red, blue, and white. Standing outside their homes as they whisper away their siren-like voices, swaying they who pass to seek the momentary bliss of a woman’s touch. Always they do this beneath the steps of their brothels, and always under the supervision of their Puffmutters.
Away then again, carried down by the Dashu river towards the eastern district, away from the streets of desire. Towards where the putrid stench of the lower end’s fades. Headed for the merchant’s district, where the grime frequently stuck on the lower ends’ pavement is no more. Here the roads are grey and smooth. The air clean and the peoples happy. Somewhat happy. For the talk around the merchant’s district is solely focused on the topic of war. And here, hushed voices, fearful of the Emperor's shades, are tinged with fear and resentment. Nearly none from the lower ends cared or worried about the war. What mattered to them was merely appeasing their growling stomachs and living for another day. What happened in a month or year was a privilege not afforded to the neglected.
But these peoples of the merchant’s district were wired differently. Here they spoke in a myriad of tongues, different to the lower parts. Here the clothes worn are clean, new, and rich in colors. Here lives a different people. Still citizens of the empire, but different still. And even more distinct, here in the merchant district, lies a tower molded from the darkest of all rocks. Unlike the spires infused with arcane sorcery, these are made of shadows and carved with obscure patterns of runes. From atop one of these towers, the view visible is made plagued by scattered messes of black spires and hidden towers of black stone. Hidden inside one of these towers, away from the loud streets of business, and away from the downpour of the sky, a silent dull hum echoes within a plain room of stone.
Inside that room, unadorned, except by a wooden table and four chairs, stood three men donned the light-blue military uniforms of the Empire. Strong and authoritative they remained. And straight and unblinking they walked. They wore their knee-high black boots and loose dark-blue trousers tucked into them. Equally, they wore a semi-loose jacket with five buttons on each side that was held together only by a tight black belt around their waists. Two of the men had golden aiguillettes draped over their right chests, next to the decorations provided for their achievements in war. Medals upon medals gleaned in that room lit by a hollow light-blue hue, emanating from small crystals implanted onto the walls. Only the obese figure, standing the furthest to the right, wore nothing but the traditional gown of military officials.
No sword by his side and no white gloves of upstart sycophants. The three men who had stood at the far end of the wall, opposite the entrance and behind the table, walked unhurriedly and took to their chairs. The man sitting then in the middle, silent and unperturbed, the right groaning by discomfort gained from his perceived overly tiny seat, and the left with a brow raised that seemed comfortably sown into position. While the obese figure on the left continued stirring in his seat in an attempt to affix himself on it, the three men heard the clanking of metal behind the door.
The room then entered into a deliberate silence as they heard the creaking of the wooden door open. A man entered then. Chained at his feet and hands. And wearing a dirty grey prison gown. His eyes plastered to the ground as he wobbled his way towards his seat. He looked dead and broken. The two guards, wearing similar outfits to the men before the chained man locked the door as they left. The three men unmoved in their seats stared at him. Guilelessly he walked and sat on his seat. His chains emitting a heavy metallic screech as they fell to the floor. None said anything for a second. The man before the group did not raise his eyes. And the group stared openly at him. All the while his was glued to the floor.
The man sitting on the left chair opened his mouth then. “Shall we?”
His voice rough and dark. The chained man raised his face and looked towards the obese figure. He hadn’t expected that. For he wasn’t supposed to be the one talking. That task customarily went to the most important figure. And he most certainly wasn’t that. The two men on his right then took the folder placed on the table before them. The man before them sat straight then. His eyes towards those before him. Why were they ignoring this slight? He thought
They turned silently down onto the files and began reading through them in silence. Only the obese figure wasn’t. And that, though it made him thankful, made him wonder also, only slightly that is, as to who he was. But only somewhat. For his mind was elsewhere then. His eyes though locked on the files held now by the men before him. He thought only of the failures, and the dishonor those files embodied. They were all that remained of who he once was. His once honorable military career. The distinction of which he served his Immortal Emperor and the failure done, attempting to go about that service. He was a murderer, and the files were the evidence of such. Though he felt some fear, his heart had long since chilled under the restraints of his cuffs and forever damaged by the silence of his prison of black rock and steel. His eyes, dead and lifeless, looked towards the obese figure. The unknown, he thought. Who was he? Did he care for the answer of he was, or what allowed him to act like so? No. He didn’t. Not anymore. His curiosity stole more lives than he could ever fathom. And his fate had long since been established. This was a farce. But he wouldn’t tell them that. But both they and he knew that his sentence had already been written in the blood-soaked sand on where his now lifeless companions fell.
The thoughts turned and twisted then. In between bouts of abrupt memories, he saw his company. Still fresh were these pictures that stung a heavy poison on his mind and plagued him with agony day and night. He saw before him the mangled corpses of his men and their killers’ widening their mouths, exposing their teeth by through a smile as they stole whatever treasures they possessed. He smelled then, always after that one memory, the lingering remains of ash and the taste of metallic blood on his tongue. It was the taste and smell of war. But that had been no war. It had been a slaughter.
And worst of all, he heard still the screams. So vivid were they in his mind, that he began to wheeze. He knew they were a fabrication. A memory of what has been, not a memory of that which is. But he could not ignore them. For all that he was, he realized quickly that he could not force himself to act as if those memories were wrong. A fabrication. His life had already been ruined. He was a traitor. And one of the vilest things still to retain their breath within this great empire. But, for all that he now was. He knew that he was no coward. His men had died because of him. And now he must suffer this torture for it. His memories though were too real. Had been too real.
Day and night, he suffered through the unrelenting stream of images and screams within that small cell of dark-grey stone. For five months they had continued. For five months he had returned time and time again back to those burning huts. Back to those screams and bloodied corpses. And back to his act of betrayal. It was a poison and he felt the effects of it directly. His mind kept fresh this torture. He had wanted to end it himself.
Many times, his mind had twisted, and he felt a need to end it. But that need never overpowered the reality of what an act it was. Suicide was the vilest of all things one could do. A coward’s way out. And no one tolerated a coward living in the empire. Most of all he. He was a traitor yes, but not a coward. And most important of all, his passage to the afterlife would be denied. And forever would he be bound to that cell. Forever a ghost haunted by the murder and dishonor wrought by his pride and curiosity.
Soon he calmed. His hands still twitching slightly, but his heart calmed and no longer beating erratically. They died because of me, he thought. And he felt nothing from that fact, anymore. It had been the truth. One he had come to believe. And he had wallowed in the agony it provided. For months, silently simmering, his thoughts turned broken and twisted. For months, his heart chilled, and his mind made distorted by the constant imagery of death. The tower’s dungeon had taken him, and they now held him firmly within their grasps. His eyes turned then. Still lifeless, to the table.
The obese figure looked at him then. And he knew. He saw through his lifeless eyes and broken exterior. He could use this, he thought. He almost smiled. Almost.
The chained man's mind so focused on the documents placed on the table failed to see the obese figures stare. But once he did, he felt nothing. He turned and set his eyes upon his. He saw nothing in them. They were blue and nothing else. The man didn’t give him any sort of feelings. He felt nothing from him. He continued to look at him. He didn’t know why, but he did. The man turned then to look towards the one in the middle. But he had still his eyes on him. The man was large-boned and thick fleshed. Double chinned, thick eyebrows, small lips, and wore in his fat fingers some jewelry. He was important, he thought. But his chest held no medals, nor anything that could indicate why. But he fit in. And he, now chained and apathetic to this truth, did not care for why the man fits in.
His eyes then turned to the others. He knew that he had committed a huge wrong. But not a wrong so large, that he should be judged by the minister of war, Lord Halifand. His eyes landed on the man sitting in the middle. Still looking through the documents and sitting straight, unlike himself.
All that he had done, all that he had accomplished, all the lives taken by his hands brought him before this council. Before Lord Halifand. And his mentor, General Alster. His eyes turned to the right then and saw him. His brow was still high. The deep eyed, thin-lipped, wide eared, and strong looking general. His mentor read the contents with a frown. Slowly and measuredly. The minister of war did so coldly and silently. Turning to the minister, he thought if he might look like the Emperor. He must be since the family kept marrying amongst themselves. His face was eerily pale. His hair white and thin, and eyes marine blue. He held a striking figure, despite being thin and having no facial hair. And he had a sharp jaw and long nose. He looked otherworldly and somewhat unnatural. He exuded privilege and from the rumors, he knew that he acted to prove it. Then, just as he had stopped peering at the men before him, the files were placed down on the table again. His face now a mask of blankness. The minister looked then at him and proceeded to open his mouth. His voice monotone and dreary.
“I will refrain from chastising you, Captain Timor. You know already the sins you have committed. But as is custom, I will paint for you the severity of those failings and the sentences given by this council. Firstly, by losing the city of Akrid, without battle, you have marked the office of which you assumed at the behest of our eternal father, a dishonor so large that what ought to be wrought is the most horrid death of all. Namely the forgetting. From this moment on, Captain Timor Arginak of House Satordi is gone. All records of his mentioning, achievements, and honors granted are no more. You do not exist, you never existed, all mentions of your person is made illegal. All those that knew you, know you no more. You are henceforth forgotten and exist no more.
“Secondly, in conjunction with this dishonor, you have failed your task as commander of your legion. You lost one hundred and twenty-three men. And twenty of our sciendori are missing. The rest, though you returned unscathed, will live the rest of their lives in dishonor. For this, the council deems it appropriate to send you to a public execution. But at the behest of certain partiers, you will instead be given a private death, behind closed doors with none to see your passing except the cold stone prison within in which you now suffocate.” He said in a deep monotone voice. The captain did not dare look at him. He only looked down towards the desk. At the files of his failures and felt his insides churn as some small semblance of shame surfaced. He knew that he would die. But not that he would be forgotten.
The obese figure coughed then, and Timor’s eyes found their attentive place on him again. But it was only he that did. For all others within that room ignored him.
The minister then collected his files, and so did his mentor before rising. Without batting an eye at him, the minister quickly left, with the guards in tow. Then his mentor did also. But not before looking at him. And it was then he saw it. He who had been his teacher, mentor, and mayhap even a friend. Through his eyes, he gleaned the disappointment and disgust at his pupil. He turned then and left hurriedly. I deserve it, Timor thought. But it still hurt. He did not know that anything could still hurt. But it did. The door closed harshly behind him, and his mind scattered. He was silent then and wished simply to die.
“Confused?” The obese figure said as a small chuckle escaped his lips. Yes, he was confused. But not to the extent that he was about to break proper etiquette and ask. He wished solely then to leave and allow them to release him from his suffering. That was all he wished. For this horrid nightmare to end. For the dishonor to disappear. For the images of his beloveds mangled corpse to be gone from his mind and her screams for help with it. He was a coward. And he knew it. Always seeking the easy way out. Like when you stood still and left her to die, he thought. His mind turned then and twisted once again. Going down that old familiar torturous and poisonous rabbit hole.
Before he could continue to wallow in his self-eroding mood once again, the obese figure continued.
“You are far too valuable to be executed, especially now after what occurred out in the desert,” he said. All the while continuing to shift in his chair. Before Timor could ask what he was talking about, the obese figure continued.
“They really should think about making these chairs bigger,” he said as he let a peal of small laughter escape him. ” I loathe how the tower treats its visitors.”
Timor hardened then and looked at the figure. “What happened out in the desert?” He faltered slightly when he heard his voice. When had he begun to sound so weak? Or had he always been so?
The man then stopped his moving and locked eyes with him. He let the silence linger for a small second before answering.
“They found the core. But failed in its extraction.” He said slowly and clearly.
The once dull hum of the walls shattered, and for the first time in three months, his mind stopped. For a few seconds, there was nothing. What did he say, he thought then? No. No, that can’t be. His mind twisted, his stomach churned and his body chilled. He felt the cold leave him then, but his throat suddenly closed. He unexpectedly found it difficult to speak. And the man caught that.
He collected himself then and spoke. “What happened?”
The obese figure looked at him for a second, then he stood and let the chair scrape against the cold hard surface. He slowly fished out a thin rectangular bronze cigarette case from his chest pocket. He opened it and removed a roll-up from the encasing. He brought it to his mouth, and without moving the cigarette was lit.
A magister! Timor cursed. Weren’t they all supposed to be at the frontlines? He thought.
Then the man moved. With heavy steps, he walked behind Timor who was still chained and on his seat.
All Timor saw then was the residual vapor of the man’s poisonous fumes. And he smelled it. He had always hated that smell. They reminded him too much of his father.
Then just as the silence had begun to fill the room the man’s voice sounded. “The city is gone, Captain.” He said. And intentionally let that statement stay up in the air along with the ejected vapor. Timor wanted more, but he waited.
And as he felt the smoke on his nape, and its lingering stench in the air, the silence broke.
“Unfortunately, my office's knowledge of forerunner ruins isn’t up to the task of explaining what transpired.
All we have is the facts. You lost Akrad. The city and the ruins within it were sealed off by the holy see. And then suddenly two months later it’s gone.” He said slowly. And just as he ended, Timor heard the low whisper of burning paper and tobacco, simultaneously with the man’s intake of breath. And he smelled the release of it also. Vile as it ever had was. It was poison. And though he loathed it, he missed the intoxication of it. The taste, though vile at the moment, seemed exquisite in his thoughts.
The urge had been cured by the walls of his prison and the torture of his mind. It had been gone, but now it was back. Like his father, he had a penchant for self-harm. But unlike him, he avoided the extreme kind. When he could afford to do so that is.
The man continued. “You must realize that this is a highly important issue and it has compounded nearly everyone in our office for weeks. I mean really, if it weren’t for our Immortal Emperors consent, dear captain, wouldn’t have been allowed to seek out these ruins in Akrad. Especially since we are at war with Chaucer. You not only found a forerunner ruin, but you unearthed its remains within one of our border cities. That took us by surprise. A forerunner palace right under noses,” he said and laughed out slightly.
None of this was new to Timor. This had been his life work and his most intense desire. His mind leaped then under his feelings of discomfort. He thought of his dead companions. They who had paid for his folly. And for that, his heart bled in agony. The expedition had been his brainchild. His assignment. And his responsibility to complete. One hundred men and women were recruited from nearly all branches of the Empire. Carefully handpicked by him. And now those careful hands were drenched in their blood. Initially, day and night, they had searched out in the desert. Moving between cities, their archives and searching for clues in the most obscure corners of the Empire and beyond. None believed him at first. When he had originally proposed his idea, the collegium had ridiculed him. And none had then wanted anything to do with him. It was only when the emperor came to give him notice and provide the aid he so dearly required. Only then, did all those who wanted nothing to do with him, to be included. For the emperor never acted irrationally. He was old. Older even than the empire itself. He rarely appeared outside, nor did he act. He hadn’t even been heard for, for three decades by then. And once he did, it was to approve of his expedition. He had the emperor's trust. But he failed. He failed his emperor's trust in him. It had started rough, his expedition. Friction between the militori and sciendori branches of his group quarreled frequently. And despite the Emperor's trust in him, some had begun to sow doubt into that trust when months were spent in vain. They couldn’t find anything. Despite Timor’s extensive scholarly exploits in the field of forerunner history and theory, he had come to doubt himself if they were ever going to find anything. There were too many clues, and too many of them marred in bias and hearsay. They had been lucky to find the ruins below Akrad. That hadn’t even been his achievement. It had been hers. His beloved, Nalea. The months out in the desert had been tough, but her presence had strengthened him in ways he could not fathom. And sitting on that chair in chains, still couldn’t fathom. She had been his shade out in the desert. And then she died. Because of him. Because of his cowardice.
He felt his eyes tearing then and there. He held them back. But couldn’t stop the feelings of guilt and shame they also set free.
He was dragged out of his thoughts by the figure suddenly sneezing. He stood in front of him now again.
He hadn’t even heard him move. He saw the man drag a white napkin from his inner jacket pocket and clean his nose with it. As he held the tissue, he was being adressed at once again.
“It had been a shame then to discover that you had lost the city to Chaucer. It took us only two weeks to reach the city, that is after you returned. And all that remained when our forces appeared, was nothing. And when I mean nothing, Captain. I mean nothing. The city was completely gone. Though the city hadn’t been much, it was still one under the banner of our empire. And it was a semi-important hub for our eastern trade.” He said. His face was now hard and apathetic.
“What do you think happened. We have a few theories. But I would like to hear from you. We tread on new grounds. No one has found what you have, and nothing has happened like what happened out there.” He said, and now stood an arm’s length away from him.
Timor, still wearing his lifeless and dead eyes held the man’s.
He then talked.
“Why do you think that I would know what happened. No one in our group touched the core. None even dared to get to close to it. Everything you want to know is written in that report,” he said as he nodded towards the files sitting on the table.
“I read them. And yet despite the sheer amount of information you put into them, nothing in it aids us in comprehending what happened. We need to know what happened, Captain. And unfortunately for us, you are the only one capable and most experienced in this field of forerunner mythology to attempt this.
“Now please captain. For your undying love to our eternal emperor and the vow you took to fulfill his task, you must attempt, at the very least, to tell us what you think happened.” Then silence began to linger in the room. Timor wanted to aid them, but what was he supposed to know that they didn’t?
Everything he found was so new, so obscure and unfamiliar, that anything they attempted to theorize upon was made wrong by a mere look towards the now-vanished core. Then after a few breaths, Timor broke his silence.
“Maybe they activated a failsafe.”
“A failsafe?” He asked, now curious.
“When we found the core, as I have written in the report, it was fused with several hundreds of small nearly invisible threads. When we had excavated the palace and found within It a maze of rock, we walked through it for days until we found that small room where the core was stored. At first, we didn’t think much of it. Just another room like all the others. Except for this one, which just had a perfectly round metallic sphere on a pedestal in the middle. When one of our men entered and hit one of these threads, he was made unconscious and never woke up. Maybe he would have, had he been given more time.” He said, and then let his mind once again wander.
“Focus captain, time is of the essence!”
Time? All they had in here was time. But he relented.
“We couldn’t follow any of those threads. When we did, we would always hit a wall the forerunner either forgot to remove or carve-out from the rock. Or we just found soil. The majority of those threads pointed downwards. And there was nothing below, except dirt and rock.” His eyes turned away from the wall he had been staring at, and he now looked towards the table before him. “They went everywhere, those threads. And after what happened to Caster, none of us wanted to touch them.”
“That is all written in the reports captain, what is your point.”
Annoyed now, he opened his mouth that wore a slight scowl. His eyes still on the table.
“The point I’m trying to make is that, what if when they removed the orb, and one of these threads connected to some faraway place reacted to the disruption. When Caster ran into one, it didn’t break. It was like he had hit a wall and his body flew back toward us. What if those threads were there to protect the orb?”
“Protect it from what?”
“I don’t know, I am beginning to think that, that question is your job to answer now. And no longer mine.”
The man then turned. “Interesting.” He said.
Timor’s eyes then turned to his right. Staring no longer at the table. His face was then hard and apathetic. He was done with this.
“Why am I still here? And who are you?” His voice was hard.
The man didn’t turn. His arms crossed over his chest looked towards the table, with his back to Timor.
“Who I am doesn’t matter, Captain. All that matters is this.” He turned then, and no longer was his face a cold front. He was smiling. And for some reason, Timor thought it the most disgusting thing ever.
“The war is coming to a head, and our great Empire may lose. Chaucer and its allies are slowly moving towards our borders. And as you already know, this two-front war has nearly depleted all of our resources. You would think that losing an entire generation of our men, some of our foreign settlements, and decade’s worth of resources was the worst thing to occur to us. But it is not. We have discovered something worse headed towards us.” There was something in his voice that Timor sensed but couldn’t place.
“Chaucer has been bequeathed an Anointed of Mara. One prophesied even to end this war and bring about the ruin of our empire.”
What? Thought Timor. An anointed? No, that couldn’t be. How? Why?
The man held his hand out to stop him. “Don’t ask. It has been confirmed. The church of Mara received a divine message through one of their seers. She died of course, but not before pointing out who the Anointed was.”
His mind chilled. Why had Mara decided to act against the empire? Hadn’t the faceless pantheon always avoided to act in favor of any one nation?
“Why did she bequeath them an Anointed?” He asked. His voice shrill and small. Though he wished for death and an end to everything. He was not so heartless and broken that he couldn’t see the fallout this business with the anointed could cause. The Empire had just been made the enemy of a god, maybe even a pantheon of them. Though the gods could not enter this plane, they weren’t without any power and pull.
The man laughed slightly then. Breaking the tension in the room. Timor's’ eyes rose hurriedly and hesitantly looked at the man. Why was he laughing?
“The Holy see proclaimed that they had received the message a mere day after Akrad vanished.”
What has Akrad anything to with this? He thought but failed in figuring out.
“I know.” The man said, having read the question straight out of his face. And he continued then.
“Before returning from the ruins of Akrad our legion was attacked. We lost half of our troops, and now the area around Akrad is in the hands of Chaucer. From what we have gathered, they have returned to what remains of the city. And do you know who they have in tow? The Anointed.
“Interesting isn’t it. Eight months ago, you discover the ruins of a forerunner city and succeed in finding some obscure object within it. Then six months later Akrad is attacked by Chaucer. They quickly break the siege somehow and kill thousands within. Then you flee with the remaining troops and citizens not killed and venture out into the desert where you are rescued by desert people. All of this occurring within a few weeks. Then the forces as we have stipulated, have somehow in your absence succeeded in either removing this orb, or they break one of those threads, and something happens. And just as you returned home and is sent down here, the legion sent to aid you to arrive late and find nothing but sand and stone. They retreat and 2 months later, the anointed spearheads a small army and retakes Akrad.” All this he summarized quickly.
Still, Timor failed to see the correlation. Yes, that core was interesting. But it didn’t emanate anything then. At least that was according to our now dead magister. He even said that it seemed dead. But from what happened to Caster, they had all acted carefully. With good reason, it seemed. But what did it have to do with Mara and the Anointed?
“Yes, it is odd. Isn’t it?” Once again, he read easily read through him. He stopped suddenly. Magisters could read minds, and he just had to make sure that this one wasn’t reading him. He closed his eyes and nudged his thoughts elsewhere. Redirected his mind inwards and down. Quickly then he hit a wall. He was still walled up. His sleeping mind is still protected. He wasn’t reading him. But even then, with a magister around, one could never be too safe.
He opened his eyes and saw the smile of the man before him. He knew that he was checking up on his walls, and the man, he presumed, knew that his walls were still up.
Still wearing that disgusting smile, the man continued. “I have a theory. One I fear that my department agrees with. The gods. Or just Mara, are afraid.”
Impossible, he thought. What could she be fearful of? Weren’t the gods to busy waging their eternal war beyond the rift?
“Afraid of what?” He asked.
“Something about this forerunner thing has them spooked. It may very well be this core. Or maybe something it caused.”
“The one I saw was nothing to be fearful of. And there was nothing in the underbelly of the city to warrant that fear also. The city is gone. Vanished as you say, what more remains that she or Chaucer could be fearful of?”
“I know. And yet, they are.”
Finally, he had, had enough. This conversation asked questions he no longer wished to entertain. His desire for knowing more about the forerunner died in Akrad with his company. And much of himself died there with them. He was not the man that entered the desert. He was nothing now. Just a husk containing memories that forced him to consider whether living was worth the torture it had to endure.
“What do you want of me? I am forgotten and soon to be dead. I don’t care much for this conversation anymore. Tell me what you wish or leave me alone.”
“You already know what I want. The Emperor isn’t a fool, Timor. The reason he allowed you to leave on that expedition hasn’t concluded.”
“I found the city. The core. But nothing more. If that place ever held anything to indicate who or what the forerunners were, then it is long gone, just as they.
“I did what I was supposed to do. And those that followed me died because of it.”
“No. You weren’t the reason for their deaths.”
“Yes, I was. I have accepted that. They died because I took them out into Akrad. They died because I was too proud and too vain to see that I had already done what I set out to accomplish.”
“No, Captain. I mean it literally. You weren’t the cause of their deaths. You were betrayed. Someone allowed the enemy to gather and slaughter your company. Someone once part of your expedition sold you out to the enemy.” His clenched jaw then melted into a smile. He grinned then, not because he found their deaths a joyful occasion but beamed for what he sensed. There was a tinge of madness in the air. And the Timor was its source. And so, he tightly grabbed hold of it. Intending to squeeze all that he could.
“Someone you know betrayed you, Captain. Someone else was responsible for the deaths of your company. The slaughter of your men, and the reason for the thoughts, images, and sounds that torture you now.”
Timor stirred in his seat for the first time. His hands clenched, and teeth clamped in anger. His heart grew cold and his fingers sore. His eyes enflamed by thoughts of revenge and fury. He had been betrayed.
“He is still out there. The man responsible for the death of your beloved is still out in the desert,” the man said. His voice hard and clear.
The entire being of Timor oozed a hatred and anger so deep that the smoking man smiled. For he could taste the madness between the breaths of poisonous fumes and cold arid air. The entire room reeked of It and he loved it.
He looked at the Timor then. The then dead eyes suddenly became alive. Enraged by thoughts of fury and murder.
Just one more push. That’s all that is needed, he thought with a smile. He then rose as he smothered the cigarette between his fingers. Ask me, he thought. Ask me who did it.
“Who was it?” He asked then. Allowing anger to rise. Now bathing in its splendor.
The man looked at him and smiled. He moved closer to him then and put his hand on his shoulder.
“We don’t know. But we have enough evidence to prove that someone sold you out. And we have evidence that proves that he or she still lives.”
“What do you need.” He said then. His voice hard and achy.
The images of that betrayer, a figure covered by a dark shadowy hue, fused over the images of the soldiers slaughtering his men. Its voice became theirs. Their faces its own. Revenge filled his mind then. Fueled by the imagery of the mangled corpses that filled his mind, and the scream of his bellowed. His mind turned mad and enraged.
Before he could continue to wallow in new feelings, the figure snapped his fingers loudly, and on his signal two men dressed in black garbs entered.
His eyes red still red with wrath saw that they wore no sigil on their chests. Nothing to indicate who or what they were. But he knew. They were the empire's shades. Servants of the black tower. And agents of the crown.
“Captain Timor, as you know, you are dead and forgotten. But that is exactly what we need. And it’s what you need as well. If you accept, these men will take you with them, and you will join them. For that is how you will gain what you wish. That is how you will avenge those that died out in the desert.” He said, now wearing that apathetic face once again.
Timor looked at the men before him again. Over the right guard’s shoulder, he saw a corpse. Without missing a beat, the shade threw the corpse on the ground next to Timor. It wore the same thing as him. Except for its head.
He held his mouth, but only for a second. He knew that he did not have a choice. And he knew despite it, that this was what he needed. More than anything. And so, to did they. He didn’t care. He would do what they asked, so long as they sent him back. For so long as they promised him that his vengeance would be satisfied, he would give them everything. For nothing else mattered then but one thing. And just as the silence began to fill the room, he gave them his approval
Suddenly then he felt himself lighter. The chains that had been locked on his flesh fell and once again emanated that metallic screech as they hit the floor. He was free. But given a new purpose. Wrath filled him and thoughts of revenge took him.
As he left the room accompanied by the two shades, the obese figure felt his locked jaw melt into a smile.
“And so, it begins,” he said. Smiling still when the door shut harshly behind Timor.
But this was not so for all parts of the empire’s capital. Though these streets housed the neglected, abused, and abandoned, life beyond these murky streets bettered largely. For all that truly remained within the lower ends were the remains of a once-forgotten dream. And it was there, hidden between mounds of waste and filth that hopes for change were laid to rest within a tomb of empty dreams. Beyond these dead and forgotten streets patrolled still by baton and sword wearing officers in light grey, life bettered. But only slightly. The homes no longer half-finished and dilapidated, but this place, though richer, was still part of the lower district. These ends were the upper parts of the three-parts. Though cleaner and slightly better, this was still a place of the neglected. Still malodorous, but now only due to its proximity to the shanties. Here lived the working women dressed in gowns of red, blue, and white. Standing outside their homes as they whisper away their siren-like voices, swaying they who pass to seek the momentary bliss of a woman’s touch. Always they do this beneath the steps of their brothels, and always under the supervision of their Puffmutters.
Away then again, carried down by the Dashu river towards the eastern district, away from the streets of desire. Towards where the putrid stench of the lower end’s fades. Headed for the merchant’s district, where the grime frequently stuck on the lower ends’ pavement is no more. Here the roads are grey and smooth. The air clean and the peoples happy. Somewhat happy. For the talk around the merchant’s district is solely focused on the topic of war. And here, hushed voices, fearful of the Emperor's shades, are tinged with fear and resentment. Nearly none from the lower ends cared or worried about the war. What mattered to them was merely appeasing their growling stomachs and living for another day. What happened in a month or year was a privilege not afforded to the neglected.
But these peoples of the merchant’s district were wired differently. Here they spoke in a myriad of tongues, different to the lower parts. Here the clothes worn are clean, new, and rich in colors. Here lives a different people. Still citizens of the empire, but different still. And even more distinct, here in the merchant district, lies a tower molded from the darkest of all rocks. Unlike the spires infused with arcane sorcery, these are made of shadows and carved with obscure patterns of runes. From atop one of these towers, the view visible is made plagued by scattered messes of black spires and hidden towers of black stone. Hidden inside one of these towers, away from the loud streets of business, and away from the downpour of the sky, a silent dull hum echoes within a plain room of stone.
Inside that room, unadorned, except by a wooden table and four chairs, stood three men donned the light-blue military uniforms of the Empire. Strong and authoritative they remained. And straight and unblinking they walked. They wore their knee-high black boots and loose dark-blue trousers tucked into them. Equally, they wore a semi-loose jacket with five buttons on each side that was held together only by a tight black belt around their waists. Two of the men had golden aiguillettes draped over their right chests, next to the decorations provided for their achievements in war. Medals upon medals gleaned in that room lit by a hollow light-blue hue, emanating from small crystals implanted onto the walls. Only the obese figure, standing the furthest to the right, wore nothing but the traditional gown of military officials.
No sword by his side and no white gloves of upstart sycophants. The three men who had stood at the far end of the wall, opposite the entrance and behind the table, walked unhurriedly and took to their chairs. The man sitting then in the middle, silent and unperturbed, the right groaning by discomfort gained from his perceived overly tiny seat, and the left with a brow raised that seemed comfortably sown into position. While the obese figure on the left continued stirring in his seat in an attempt to affix himself on it, the three men heard the clanking of metal behind the door.
The room then entered into a deliberate silence as they heard the creaking of the wooden door open. A man entered then. Chained at his feet and hands. And wearing a dirty grey prison gown. His eyes plastered to the ground as he wobbled his way towards his seat. He looked dead and broken. The two guards, wearing similar outfits to the men before the chained man locked the door as they left. The three men unmoved in their seats stared at him. Guilelessly he walked and sat on his seat. His chains emitting a heavy metallic screech as they fell to the floor. None said anything for a second. The man before the group did not raise his eyes. And the group stared openly at him. All the while his was glued to the floor.
The man sitting on the left chair opened his mouth then. “Shall we?”
His voice rough and dark. The chained man raised his face and looked towards the obese figure. He hadn’t expected that. For he wasn’t supposed to be the one talking. That task customarily went to the most important figure. And he most certainly wasn’t that. The two men on his right then took the folder placed on the table before them. The man before them sat straight then. His eyes towards those before him. Why were they ignoring this slight? He thought
They turned silently down onto the files and began reading through them in silence. Only the obese figure wasn’t. And that, though it made him thankful, made him wonder also, only slightly that is, as to who he was. But only somewhat. For his mind was elsewhere then. His eyes though locked on the files held now by the men before him. He thought only of the failures, and the dishonor those files embodied. They were all that remained of who he once was. His once honorable military career. The distinction of which he served his Immortal Emperor and the failure done, attempting to go about that service. He was a murderer, and the files were the evidence of such. Though he felt some fear, his heart had long since chilled under the restraints of his cuffs and forever damaged by the silence of his prison of black rock and steel. His eyes, dead and lifeless, looked towards the obese figure. The unknown, he thought. Who was he? Did he care for the answer of he was, or what allowed him to act like so? No. He didn’t. Not anymore. His curiosity stole more lives than he could ever fathom. And his fate had long since been established. This was a farce. But he wouldn’t tell them that. But both they and he knew that his sentence had already been written in the blood-soaked sand on where his now lifeless companions fell.
The thoughts turned and twisted then. In between bouts of abrupt memories, he saw his company. Still fresh were these pictures that stung a heavy poison on his mind and plagued him with agony day and night. He saw before him the mangled corpses of his men and their killers’ widening their mouths, exposing their teeth by through a smile as they stole whatever treasures they possessed. He smelled then, always after that one memory, the lingering remains of ash and the taste of metallic blood on his tongue. It was the taste and smell of war. But that had been no war. It had been a slaughter.
And worst of all, he heard still the screams. So vivid were they in his mind, that he began to wheeze. He knew they were a fabrication. A memory of what has been, not a memory of that which is. But he could not ignore them. For all that he was, he realized quickly that he could not force himself to act as if those memories were wrong. A fabrication. His life had already been ruined. He was a traitor. And one of the vilest things still to retain their breath within this great empire. But, for all that he now was. He knew that he was no coward. His men had died because of him. And now he must suffer this torture for it. His memories though were too real. Had been too real.
Day and night, he suffered through the unrelenting stream of images and screams within that small cell of dark-grey stone. For five months they had continued. For five months he had returned time and time again back to those burning huts. Back to those screams and bloodied corpses. And back to his act of betrayal. It was a poison and he felt the effects of it directly. His mind kept fresh this torture. He had wanted to end it himself.
Many times, his mind had twisted, and he felt a need to end it. But that need never overpowered the reality of what an act it was. Suicide was the vilest of all things one could do. A coward’s way out. And no one tolerated a coward living in the empire. Most of all he. He was a traitor yes, but not a coward. And most important of all, his passage to the afterlife would be denied. And forever would he be bound to that cell. Forever a ghost haunted by the murder and dishonor wrought by his pride and curiosity.
Soon he calmed. His hands still twitching slightly, but his heart calmed and no longer beating erratically. They died because of me, he thought. And he felt nothing from that fact, anymore. It had been the truth. One he had come to believe. And he had wallowed in the agony it provided. For months, silently simmering, his thoughts turned broken and twisted. For months, his heart chilled, and his mind made distorted by the constant imagery of death. The tower’s dungeon had taken him, and they now held him firmly within their grasps. His eyes turned then. Still lifeless, to the table.
The obese figure looked at him then. And he knew. He saw through his lifeless eyes and broken exterior. He could use this, he thought. He almost smiled. Almost.
The chained man's mind so focused on the documents placed on the table failed to see the obese figures stare. But once he did, he felt nothing. He turned and set his eyes upon his. He saw nothing in them. They were blue and nothing else. The man didn’t give him any sort of feelings. He felt nothing from him. He continued to look at him. He didn’t know why, but he did. The man turned then to look towards the one in the middle. But he had still his eyes on him. The man was large-boned and thick fleshed. Double chinned, thick eyebrows, small lips, and wore in his fat fingers some jewelry. He was important, he thought. But his chest held no medals, nor anything that could indicate why. But he fit in. And he, now chained and apathetic to this truth, did not care for why the man fits in.
His eyes then turned to the others. He knew that he had committed a huge wrong. But not a wrong so large, that he should be judged by the minister of war, Lord Halifand. His eyes landed on the man sitting in the middle. Still looking through the documents and sitting straight, unlike himself.
All that he had done, all that he had accomplished, all the lives taken by his hands brought him before this council. Before Lord Halifand. And his mentor, General Alster. His eyes turned to the right then and saw him. His brow was still high. The deep eyed, thin-lipped, wide eared, and strong looking general. His mentor read the contents with a frown. Slowly and measuredly. The minister of war did so coldly and silently. Turning to the minister, he thought if he might look like the Emperor. He must be since the family kept marrying amongst themselves. His face was eerily pale. His hair white and thin, and eyes marine blue. He held a striking figure, despite being thin and having no facial hair. And he had a sharp jaw and long nose. He looked otherworldly and somewhat unnatural. He exuded privilege and from the rumors, he knew that he acted to prove it. Then, just as he had stopped peering at the men before him, the files were placed down on the table again. His face now a mask of blankness. The minister looked then at him and proceeded to open his mouth. His voice monotone and dreary.
“I will refrain from chastising you, Captain Timor. You know already the sins you have committed. But as is custom, I will paint for you the severity of those failings and the sentences given by this council. Firstly, by losing the city of Akrid, without battle, you have marked the office of which you assumed at the behest of our eternal father, a dishonor so large that what ought to be wrought is the most horrid death of all. Namely the forgetting. From this moment on, Captain Timor Arginak of House Satordi is gone. All records of his mentioning, achievements, and honors granted are no more. You do not exist, you never existed, all mentions of your person is made illegal. All those that knew you, know you no more. You are henceforth forgotten and exist no more.
“Secondly, in conjunction with this dishonor, you have failed your task as commander of your legion. You lost one hundred and twenty-three men. And twenty of our sciendori are missing. The rest, though you returned unscathed, will live the rest of their lives in dishonor. For this, the council deems it appropriate to send you to a public execution. But at the behest of certain partiers, you will instead be given a private death, behind closed doors with none to see your passing except the cold stone prison within in which you now suffocate.” He said in a deep monotone voice. The captain did not dare look at him. He only looked down towards the desk. At the files of his failures and felt his insides churn as some small semblance of shame surfaced. He knew that he would die. But not that he would be forgotten.
The obese figure coughed then, and Timor’s eyes found their attentive place on him again. But it was only he that did. For all others within that room ignored him.
The minister then collected his files, and so did his mentor before rising. Without batting an eye at him, the minister quickly left, with the guards in tow. Then his mentor did also. But not before looking at him. And it was then he saw it. He who had been his teacher, mentor, and mayhap even a friend. Through his eyes, he gleaned the disappointment and disgust at his pupil. He turned then and left hurriedly. I deserve it, Timor thought. But it still hurt. He did not know that anything could still hurt. But it did. The door closed harshly behind him, and his mind scattered. He was silent then and wished simply to die.
“Confused?” The obese figure said as a small chuckle escaped his lips. Yes, he was confused. But not to the extent that he was about to break proper etiquette and ask. He wished solely then to leave and allow them to release him from his suffering. That was all he wished. For this horrid nightmare to end. For the dishonor to disappear. For the images of his beloveds mangled corpse to be gone from his mind and her screams for help with it. He was a coward. And he knew it. Always seeking the easy way out. Like when you stood still and left her to die, he thought. His mind turned then and twisted once again. Going down that old familiar torturous and poisonous rabbit hole.
Before he could continue to wallow in his self-eroding mood once again, the obese figure continued.
“You are far too valuable to be executed, especially now after what occurred out in the desert,” he said. All the while continuing to shift in his chair. Before Timor could ask what he was talking about, the obese figure continued.
“They really should think about making these chairs bigger,” he said as he let a peal of small laughter escape him. ” I loathe how the tower treats its visitors.”
Timor hardened then and looked at the figure. “What happened out in the desert?” He faltered slightly when he heard his voice. When had he begun to sound so weak? Or had he always been so?
The man then stopped his moving and locked eyes with him. He let the silence linger for a small second before answering.
“They found the core. But failed in its extraction.” He said slowly and clearly.
The once dull hum of the walls shattered, and for the first time in three months, his mind stopped. For a few seconds, there was nothing. What did he say, he thought then? No. No, that can’t be. His mind twisted, his stomach churned and his body chilled. He felt the cold leave him then, but his throat suddenly closed. He unexpectedly found it difficult to speak. And the man caught that.
He collected himself then and spoke. “What happened?”
The obese figure looked at him for a second, then he stood and let the chair scrape against the cold hard surface. He slowly fished out a thin rectangular bronze cigarette case from his chest pocket. He opened it and removed a roll-up from the encasing. He brought it to his mouth, and without moving the cigarette was lit.
A magister! Timor cursed. Weren’t they all supposed to be at the frontlines? He thought.
Then the man moved. With heavy steps, he walked behind Timor who was still chained and on his seat.
All Timor saw then was the residual vapor of the man’s poisonous fumes. And he smelled it. He had always hated that smell. They reminded him too much of his father.
Then just as the silence had begun to fill the room the man’s voice sounded. “The city is gone, Captain.” He said. And intentionally let that statement stay up in the air along with the ejected vapor. Timor wanted more, but he waited.
And as he felt the smoke on his nape, and its lingering stench in the air, the silence broke.
“Unfortunately, my office's knowledge of forerunner ruins isn’t up to the task of explaining what transpired.
All we have is the facts. You lost Akrad. The city and the ruins within it were sealed off by the holy see. And then suddenly two months later it’s gone.” He said slowly. And just as he ended, Timor heard the low whisper of burning paper and tobacco, simultaneously with the man’s intake of breath. And he smelled the release of it also. Vile as it ever had was. It was poison. And though he loathed it, he missed the intoxication of it. The taste, though vile at the moment, seemed exquisite in his thoughts.
The urge had been cured by the walls of his prison and the torture of his mind. It had been gone, but now it was back. Like his father, he had a penchant for self-harm. But unlike him, he avoided the extreme kind. When he could afford to do so that is.
The man continued. “You must realize that this is a highly important issue and it has compounded nearly everyone in our office for weeks. I mean really, if it weren’t for our Immortal Emperors consent, dear captain, wouldn’t have been allowed to seek out these ruins in Akrad. Especially since we are at war with Chaucer. You not only found a forerunner ruin, but you unearthed its remains within one of our border cities. That took us by surprise. A forerunner palace right under noses,” he said and laughed out slightly.
None of this was new to Timor. This had been his life work and his most intense desire. His mind leaped then under his feelings of discomfort. He thought of his dead companions. They who had paid for his folly. And for that, his heart bled in agony. The expedition had been his brainchild. His assignment. And his responsibility to complete. One hundred men and women were recruited from nearly all branches of the Empire. Carefully handpicked by him. And now those careful hands were drenched in their blood. Initially, day and night, they had searched out in the desert. Moving between cities, their archives and searching for clues in the most obscure corners of the Empire and beyond. None believed him at first. When he had originally proposed his idea, the collegium had ridiculed him. And none had then wanted anything to do with him. It was only when the emperor came to give him notice and provide the aid he so dearly required. Only then, did all those who wanted nothing to do with him, to be included. For the emperor never acted irrationally. He was old. Older even than the empire itself. He rarely appeared outside, nor did he act. He hadn’t even been heard for, for three decades by then. And once he did, it was to approve of his expedition. He had the emperor's trust. But he failed. He failed his emperor's trust in him. It had started rough, his expedition. Friction between the militori and sciendori branches of his group quarreled frequently. And despite the Emperor's trust in him, some had begun to sow doubt into that trust when months were spent in vain. They couldn’t find anything. Despite Timor’s extensive scholarly exploits in the field of forerunner history and theory, he had come to doubt himself if they were ever going to find anything. There were too many clues, and too many of them marred in bias and hearsay. They had been lucky to find the ruins below Akrad. That hadn’t even been his achievement. It had been hers. His beloved, Nalea. The months out in the desert had been tough, but her presence had strengthened him in ways he could not fathom. And sitting on that chair in chains, still couldn’t fathom. She had been his shade out in the desert. And then she died. Because of him. Because of his cowardice.
He felt his eyes tearing then and there. He held them back. But couldn’t stop the feelings of guilt and shame they also set free.
He was dragged out of his thoughts by the figure suddenly sneezing. He stood in front of him now again.
He hadn’t even heard him move. He saw the man drag a white napkin from his inner jacket pocket and clean his nose with it. As he held the tissue, he was being adressed at once again.
“It had been a shame then to discover that you had lost the city to Chaucer. It took us only two weeks to reach the city, that is after you returned. And all that remained when our forces appeared, was nothing. And when I mean nothing, Captain. I mean nothing. The city was completely gone. Though the city hadn’t been much, it was still one under the banner of our empire. And it was a semi-important hub for our eastern trade.” He said. His face was now hard and apathetic.
“What do you think happened. We have a few theories. But I would like to hear from you. We tread on new grounds. No one has found what you have, and nothing has happened like what happened out there.” He said, and now stood an arm’s length away from him.
Timor, still wearing his lifeless and dead eyes held the man’s.
He then talked.
“Why do you think that I would know what happened. No one in our group touched the core. None even dared to get to close to it. Everything you want to know is written in that report,” he said as he nodded towards the files sitting on the table.
“I read them. And yet despite the sheer amount of information you put into them, nothing in it aids us in comprehending what happened. We need to know what happened, Captain. And unfortunately for us, you are the only one capable and most experienced in this field of forerunner mythology to attempt this.
“Now please captain. For your undying love to our eternal emperor and the vow you took to fulfill his task, you must attempt, at the very least, to tell us what you think happened.” Then silence began to linger in the room. Timor wanted to aid them, but what was he supposed to know that they didn’t?
Everything he found was so new, so obscure and unfamiliar, that anything they attempted to theorize upon was made wrong by a mere look towards the now-vanished core. Then after a few breaths, Timor broke his silence.
“Maybe they activated a failsafe.”
“A failsafe?” He asked, now curious.
“When we found the core, as I have written in the report, it was fused with several hundreds of small nearly invisible threads. When we had excavated the palace and found within It a maze of rock, we walked through it for days until we found that small room where the core was stored. At first, we didn’t think much of it. Just another room like all the others. Except for this one, which just had a perfectly round metallic sphere on a pedestal in the middle. When one of our men entered and hit one of these threads, he was made unconscious and never woke up. Maybe he would have, had he been given more time.” He said, and then let his mind once again wander.
“Focus captain, time is of the essence!”
Time? All they had in here was time. But he relented.
“We couldn’t follow any of those threads. When we did, we would always hit a wall the forerunner either forgot to remove or carve-out from the rock. Or we just found soil. The majority of those threads pointed downwards. And there was nothing below, except dirt and rock.” His eyes turned away from the wall he had been staring at, and he now looked towards the table before him. “They went everywhere, those threads. And after what happened to Caster, none of us wanted to touch them.”
“That is all written in the reports captain, what is your point.”
Annoyed now, he opened his mouth that wore a slight scowl. His eyes still on the table.
“The point I’m trying to make is that, what if when they removed the orb, and one of these threads connected to some faraway place reacted to the disruption. When Caster ran into one, it didn’t break. It was like he had hit a wall and his body flew back toward us. What if those threads were there to protect the orb?”
“Protect it from what?”
“I don’t know, I am beginning to think that, that question is your job to answer now. And no longer mine.”
The man then turned. “Interesting.” He said.
Timor’s eyes then turned to his right. Staring no longer at the table. His face was then hard and apathetic. He was done with this.
“Why am I still here? And who are you?” His voice was hard.
The man didn’t turn. His arms crossed over his chest looked towards the table, with his back to Timor.
“Who I am doesn’t matter, Captain. All that matters is this.” He turned then, and no longer was his face a cold front. He was smiling. And for some reason, Timor thought it the most disgusting thing ever.
“The war is coming to a head, and our great Empire may lose. Chaucer and its allies are slowly moving towards our borders. And as you already know, this two-front war has nearly depleted all of our resources. You would think that losing an entire generation of our men, some of our foreign settlements, and decade’s worth of resources was the worst thing to occur to us. But it is not. We have discovered something worse headed towards us.” There was something in his voice that Timor sensed but couldn’t place.
“Chaucer has been bequeathed an Anointed of Mara. One prophesied even to end this war and bring about the ruin of our empire.”
What? Thought Timor. An anointed? No, that couldn’t be. How? Why?
The man held his hand out to stop him. “Don’t ask. It has been confirmed. The church of Mara received a divine message through one of their seers. She died of course, but not before pointing out who the Anointed was.”
His mind chilled. Why had Mara decided to act against the empire? Hadn’t the faceless pantheon always avoided to act in favor of any one nation?
“Why did she bequeath them an Anointed?” He asked. His voice shrill and small. Though he wished for death and an end to everything. He was not so heartless and broken that he couldn’t see the fallout this business with the anointed could cause. The Empire had just been made the enemy of a god, maybe even a pantheon of them. Though the gods could not enter this plane, they weren’t without any power and pull.
The man laughed slightly then. Breaking the tension in the room. Timor's’ eyes rose hurriedly and hesitantly looked at the man. Why was he laughing?
“The Holy see proclaimed that they had received the message a mere day after Akrad vanished.”
What has Akrad anything to with this? He thought but failed in figuring out.
“I know.” The man said, having read the question straight out of his face. And he continued then.
“Before returning from the ruins of Akrad our legion was attacked. We lost half of our troops, and now the area around Akrad is in the hands of Chaucer. From what we have gathered, they have returned to what remains of the city. And do you know who they have in tow? The Anointed.
“Interesting isn’t it. Eight months ago, you discover the ruins of a forerunner city and succeed in finding some obscure object within it. Then six months later Akrad is attacked by Chaucer. They quickly break the siege somehow and kill thousands within. Then you flee with the remaining troops and citizens not killed and venture out into the desert where you are rescued by desert people. All of this occurring within a few weeks. Then the forces as we have stipulated, have somehow in your absence succeeded in either removing this orb, or they break one of those threads, and something happens. And just as you returned home and is sent down here, the legion sent to aid you to arrive late and find nothing but sand and stone. They retreat and 2 months later, the anointed spearheads a small army and retakes Akrad.” All this he summarized quickly.
Still, Timor failed to see the correlation. Yes, that core was interesting. But it didn’t emanate anything then. At least that was according to our now dead magister. He even said that it seemed dead. But from what happened to Caster, they had all acted carefully. With good reason, it seemed. But what did it have to do with Mara and the Anointed?
“Yes, it is odd. Isn’t it?” Once again, he read easily read through him. He stopped suddenly. Magisters could read minds, and he just had to make sure that this one wasn’t reading him. He closed his eyes and nudged his thoughts elsewhere. Redirected his mind inwards and down. Quickly then he hit a wall. He was still walled up. His sleeping mind is still protected. He wasn’t reading him. But even then, with a magister around, one could never be too safe.
He opened his eyes and saw the smile of the man before him. He knew that he was checking up on his walls, and the man, he presumed, knew that his walls were still up.
Still wearing that disgusting smile, the man continued. “I have a theory. One I fear that my department agrees with. The gods. Or just Mara, are afraid.”
Impossible, he thought. What could she be fearful of? Weren’t the gods to busy waging their eternal war beyond the rift?
“Afraid of what?” He asked.
“Something about this forerunner thing has them spooked. It may very well be this core. Or maybe something it caused.”
“The one I saw was nothing to be fearful of. And there was nothing in the underbelly of the city to warrant that fear also. The city is gone. Vanished as you say, what more remains that she or Chaucer could be fearful of?”
“I know. And yet, they are.”
Finally, he had, had enough. This conversation asked questions he no longer wished to entertain. His desire for knowing more about the forerunner died in Akrad with his company. And much of himself died there with them. He was not the man that entered the desert. He was nothing now. Just a husk containing memories that forced him to consider whether living was worth the torture it had to endure.
“What do you want of me? I am forgotten and soon to be dead. I don’t care much for this conversation anymore. Tell me what you wish or leave me alone.”
“You already know what I want. The Emperor isn’t a fool, Timor. The reason he allowed you to leave on that expedition hasn’t concluded.”
“I found the city. The core. But nothing more. If that place ever held anything to indicate who or what the forerunners were, then it is long gone, just as they.
“I did what I was supposed to do. And those that followed me died because of it.”
“No. You weren’t the reason for their deaths.”
“Yes, I was. I have accepted that. They died because I took them out into Akrad. They died because I was too proud and too vain to see that I had already done what I set out to accomplish.”
“No, Captain. I mean it literally. You weren’t the cause of their deaths. You were betrayed. Someone allowed the enemy to gather and slaughter your company. Someone once part of your expedition sold you out to the enemy.” His clenched jaw then melted into a smile. He grinned then, not because he found their deaths a joyful occasion but beamed for what he sensed. There was a tinge of madness in the air. And the Timor was its source. And so, he tightly grabbed hold of it. Intending to squeeze all that he could.
“Someone you know betrayed you, Captain. Someone else was responsible for the deaths of your company. The slaughter of your men, and the reason for the thoughts, images, and sounds that torture you now.”
Timor stirred in his seat for the first time. His hands clenched, and teeth clamped in anger. His heart grew cold and his fingers sore. His eyes enflamed by thoughts of revenge and fury. He had been betrayed.
“He is still out there. The man responsible for the death of your beloved is still out in the desert,” the man said. His voice hard and clear.
The entire being of Timor oozed a hatred and anger so deep that the smoking man smiled. For he could taste the madness between the breaths of poisonous fumes and cold arid air. The entire room reeked of It and he loved it.
He looked at the Timor then. The then dead eyes suddenly became alive. Enraged by thoughts of fury and murder.
Just one more push. That’s all that is needed, he thought with a smile. He then rose as he smothered the cigarette between his fingers. Ask me, he thought. Ask me who did it.
“Who was it?” He asked then. Allowing anger to rise. Now bathing in its splendor.
The man looked at him and smiled. He moved closer to him then and put his hand on his shoulder.
“We don’t know. But we have enough evidence to prove that someone sold you out. And we have evidence that proves that he or she still lives.”
“What do you need.” He said then. His voice hard and achy.
The images of that betrayer, a figure covered by a dark shadowy hue, fused over the images of the soldiers slaughtering his men. Its voice became theirs. Their faces its own. Revenge filled his mind then. Fueled by the imagery of the mangled corpses that filled his mind, and the scream of his bellowed. His mind turned mad and enraged.
Before he could continue to wallow in new feelings, the figure snapped his fingers loudly, and on his signal two men dressed in black garbs entered.
His eyes red still red with wrath saw that they wore no sigil on their chests. Nothing to indicate who or what they were. But he knew. They were the empire's shades. Servants of the black tower. And agents of the crown.
“Captain Timor, as you know, you are dead and forgotten. But that is exactly what we need. And it’s what you need as well. If you accept, these men will take you with them, and you will join them. For that is how you will gain what you wish. That is how you will avenge those that died out in the desert.” He said, now wearing that apathetic face once again.
Timor looked at the men before him again. Over the right guard’s shoulder, he saw a corpse. Without missing a beat, the shade threw the corpse on the ground next to Timor. It wore the same thing as him. Except for its head.
He held his mouth, but only for a second. He knew that he did not have a choice. And he knew despite it, that this was what he needed. More than anything. And so, to did they. He didn’t care. He would do what they asked, so long as they sent him back. For so long as they promised him that his vengeance would be satisfied, he would give them everything. For nothing else mattered then but one thing. And just as the silence began to fill the room, he gave them his approval
Suddenly then he felt himself lighter. The chains that had been locked on his flesh fell and once again emanated that metallic screech as they hit the floor. He was free. But given a new purpose. Wrath filled him and thoughts of revenge took him.
As he left the room accompanied by the two shades, the obese figure felt his locked jaw melt into a smile.
“And so, it begins,” he said. Smiling still when the door shut harshly behind Timor.
