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Chapter 54 - Marionette
🕑 Added 2024-09-20 21:29:51 +0000 UTCI am here.
Vincent stood at the entrance to one of the homes the soldiers had cleared out. He gazed at the round structure in the middle of the plaza. Its walls were built with curved brick and mortar. It was by far the largest building in the village. He estimated it must have been at least two-hundred or more feet in diameter.
“I am here,” he mouthed, “and I want answers. You bowed to me on the thread. You spoke to me in my mother's voice. Then you posed a bunch of bodies in some sort of fucked up display meant to greet me. Now I'm here...let's talk.”
Lightning flickered within the pillar of storms that floated above the structure, revealing a shadowy figure with a round, military hat. Dave stood right outside the window, unseen by Vincent's companions.
“What do you think you're gonna accomplish, son?” he demanded, “it doesn't want you. It wants to take over the world.”
“You know what it wants?” Vincent whispered.
“You are like a little brother to me, Cordell. I need to protect you. Turn around and go back. You can't face this asshole.”
“I have no choice. Without my memories...I am nothing. Do you remember Deonte?”
“Of course, I remember him. He was a man of honor. Served right by my side.”
Vincent placed a hand on the doorframe, closed his eyes, and sighed.
“This...this is what you do: you make shit up,” he said, “Deonte never served in the military, and he never served with you. You don't exist. Anyway...he once told me I need to show you who's boss. I've been thinking about that a lot. That’s what I’m doing.”
Dave paced in front of him, his figure phasing in and out of existence. “Bullshit. You don’t believe that,” he said, “you're ashamed.”
“Ashamed? Of what?” Vincent asked.
“Of lying to them. Don't deny it. We share the same body. I know what you're thinking. You're ashamed of lying to these creatures. Their men died for you. You're feeling guilt. You're just trying to ignore it. You're trying to pretend you don't care. You're a coward.”
The sky crackled. Clouds flickered. Vincent opened his mouth to retort, but struggled. Dave's words cut deep. He was right. Vincent did care about these people. He didn't show it. He was afraid to. He was worried of falling in love with something that wasn't real and then waking up. But he cared about them deeply. His confrontation with The La'ark made him realize that. He was rotting on the inside. The groundwalkers, the zerok, they made him feel like a kid lost in a fantasy. He had spent so long in bitterness, existing in an unfair world that he had become hostile toward beauty. He loathed himself.
In his periphery, he saw flashes of bright light. Hot blades cleaved through the frozen corpses and limbs dropped to the ground. They were thrown onto some wagons to be carried away. His madness made the corpses scream. He had no idea why it was necessary to carry out such an act, but he stopped questioning the logic of this world.
“You need to turn back, Cordell,” Dave said, now standing by his side, “if you face that thing...there will be no coming back from whatever they are scheming.”
Vincent turned to look at him. “Then help me,” he said in desperation, “you and the others are connected to this place. Whatever the hell we find in there, we outnumber it.”
In a moment of rare self-awareness, Dave reached out to place a hand on Vincent's shoulder only for it to pass through.
“It doesn't work that way, Cordell,” he said, “that thing is real. We are just dreams.”
"Just dreams," the phantoms whispered.
“Just dreams. He is dreaming.”
“Just dreams...nothing but dreams and shadows.”
Dave stepped through the wall and faded into the distance. A gust of wind blew snow into Vincent’s helmet. He wiped it off and looked up at the towering system. Shaped like an enormous, vertical grain of rice, there was something both eerie and beautiful about the way it churned and simmered. It moved with a chaotic grace; its surface, a web of ever-shifting shapes and spinning wisps. The other storms in the vicinity seemed to keep their distance, almost as if they respected it, creating an expansive bubble around the gyrating pillar.
Tuls described it as an abyss. Vincent didn’t know what he meant by this, but he could see himself getting lost in it. It called him. He looked down and saw one of the frozen dragon children posed in front of him, as still as a statue. Human blood wept from its empty eyes. Vincent reached down to gather a clump of snow and tossed it at the figure. The snowball passed through it.
“What are you doing?” Tuls asked. When Vincent looked at him, Tuls averted his eyes. Apparently he found Vincent’s madness just as disturbing as the dismemberment going on outside.
“Visual hallucination,” Vincent said, looking back at the child. “One of your kids is standing in front of me, bleeding out of its eyes.”
Tuls let out a wry, humorless laugh. “And you aren't afraid of it...”
Vincent's only answer was to shrug. He ignored the apparition and watched as a squad of soldiers inspected the structure's exterior. They had a channeler with them pressing his hands and wings on the brick, perhaps to gauge what sort of lore or evil might be lurking inside. From the expression on their faces, it was nothing pleasant. He heard heavy footsteps and a moment later Akhil walked by looking grim. He stopped, did a double take when he saw Vincent and looked into his eyes.
“Cure yourself,” he ordered, “we will be going in soon. I want your mind clear, so you can do what you’re told.” Then he left.
Vincent removed his gloves, reached into the pocket where he kept the Triasat, then he dosed himself. As always, he nearly collapsed to the ground from the violent retching. Black fumes filled his helmet, the wisps pouring out the eyeholes, obscuring the grinning corpse. When he was finished, the apparition had vanished. Jeris extended a hand and helped him back up.
“Not necessary...but thanks,” Vincent said.
Soon after, Akhil stopped by, accompanied by his brother.
“You all stay here. Guard him.” he nodded to Vincent. Then they both turned and headed toward the structure.
“Wait...what do you mean 'stay here and guard him'?” Vincent asked, “I thought you said we're going in.”
“They are. You are not.” It was The La'ark who spoke. She was mounted on her landrider with a lance drawn, “The quarters are tight, and we do not know what is in there. Whatever it is, it wants you. Even if you could fight, that fact alone is enough to keep you out here. So, stay here, and stay put.”
Of course. Vincent felt like an idiot for thinking he would be going in. He wasn’t a fighter. Nevertheless, the building had gravity. He felt drawn to it. With this obsession came the unreasonable expectation that he would be going in with them. Why? He flinched when two objects snaked through the air. Both were chains with an iron ball on one end, and a spike on the other. They were the weapons the brothers had used to fight the tantalons. They slowed down and orbited around their owners, chain links clanking as the ball and spike held them aloft.
As the brothers approached the set of frozen doors, the chains followed, spikes aimed for the door. Black fluid began to pour forth from their blades and coat their bodies. It was the same substance Slade had used when she confronted the Teramin Devourer. Soldiers flanked them on both sides with weapons drawn, prepared to fire as soon as the doors were breached. Vincent palmed the handle of the shryken, which was clipped to his belt. He could feel the script within, but he had a hard time concentrating on it. He had to be relaxed in order to dive into its code. He was not relaxed.
Oris flared his blade to life. It became a glowing orange rod in the darkening storm. He reached it over to his brother and tapped him on the back. The fluid covering Akhil's figure immediately went up in a blaze, flames raced along his contours, ran up his backside and licked at the air. He became a walking inferno, a figure that seemed to have stepped out of the gates of hell itself. He reached forward and pressed his hand against Oris’ chest. Tongues of flame spread across his form.
Above them, the storm's electricity continued to sizzle and jabber. The two blazing infernos turned toward the door with blades drawn. Each step parted the layers of ice and snow on the ground, leaving behind a trail of steam and water in their wake. The soldiers flanking the entrance stepped back. Vincent could see water evaporating from their garments.
The door to the structure was caked in ice. It began to melt as soon as the twins closed their distance. Bricks popped beneath their feet. Oris raised his blade and plunged it through the door’s edge. A narrow jet of steam whistled as he guided the blade along the channel. Boiling water ran down the front. Akhil plunged his blade on the opposite side and began to follow its edge. The jets of steam turned into sharp white flames. The thermal shock cracked entire sheets of ice, causing them to pop off the frame. Stalactites dropped to the ground and shattered. The brothers cut across the top and met in the middle where the two doors joined. Oris took over and guided his blade down the final seam, until he reached the bottom.
Akhil grabbed the handle and tried to open it. When the door wouldn't budge, he stepped back and Oris did the same. The weights on their chains shot forth, crashing against the door. Icicles broke free and shattered, the doors bucked, but they didn’t give in. They both tried a second time, slamming their conduits against the doors. Still, they wouldn't budge. Akhil inspected the seam, then communicated something to his brother using hand gestures. Oris took a look, then he stepped back, raised his blade and plunged it deep into the doors' crack and flared it, dragging it downward. White flames shot at his wrist like a torch. Smoke rose up to join the storm churning in the heavens. Oris withdrew his blade, stepped back and gave the door a good kick. This time, it swung inward, allowing plumes of smoke to pour outward.
***
When Oris breached the door, the men behind them raised their crossbows, prepared to fire at the slightest movement. Akhil raised his blade and snaked his saluk over his shoulder, the imaging from its conduits overlaying his own sight. But nothing happened. No horrors came rushing out to meet them. Akhil waited for what he thought was smoke to stop pouring out. However, he realized with some surprise that the smoke had already stopped. What he was seeing was a fine gray mist, a fog that gently rolled forth, its wisps licking the air.
He frowned at the development. The fog would make scouting with a spark difficult. The flames would chase away the fog. But flaming ethnir could only be used for short periods of time, and it was never a good idea to use it in confined spaces. Already, he was feeling his armor getting uncomfortably warm. So he dropped his flames and Oris did the same. They had been expecting a rush of stormspawn, but since there wasn't, there was no need for the fire. They both waited for the ethnir to retract into the handles before summoning their sparks. Using imaging, they established contact with the false conduits and sent them into the building. A third sight overlaid Akhil's reality, joining the visions coming from the saluk.
Akhil paused to inspect the door and saw immediately why it had been so tough to break. It had been boarded up and braced from the inside. The building had very few windows to speak of. Of those it did have, none of them were large enough for a person to fit through. So this door was the only means of entering and exiting, which meant whoever had tried to seal it was most likely still inside.
“They took shelter in here,” Oris said, reaching the same conclusion. “Perhaps to prevent something from getting in.”
“I go left. You, right.”
“Aye.”
Akhil closed his eyes and lowered his saluk to the ground. He disconnected its paths so that the spark would be his only sight. As he predicted, the mist obfuscated its vision, so he stayed close to the wall and used it as a frame of reference. An outer hallway ran along the perimeter of the building. He followed it and stopped his spark when he saw a blue streak run up the wall.
“Blood trails,” he grumbled, “looks like something was dragged.”
“Here as well,” Oris said, “no bodies.”
The trails ran along the outer wall before dropping to the ground. Akhil stopped the spark over a large puddle. A corpse must have laid there with the amount of blood present. He could see its imprint. He steered the orb into an open doorway to inspect a room. Nothing to see there, besides a few books. So, he exited and continued down the hallway. Behind him, he could feel the soldiers waiting with anticipation, their weapons raised. None of them spoke a word. He met up with Oris' spark halfway around the building. They sent the orbs further in, finding another concentric hallway. Like they did before, they flew in opposite directions to cover more ground.
The mist licked at the spark's vision, making it hard to tell how fast Akhil’s spark was flying. He was forced to hover either near the ground, ceiling, or wall so he could gauge its speed. It would be easy to miss something in this fog. Flying near the ceiling, he came upon a dully lit nytic lantern , almost crashing into it. He backed the spark up and looked around. He looked down and froze. Three fingers pointed out of the fog at him from the floor below, their owners obfuscated by the sea of silver mist. With caution, lowered the spark to get a better look. Three grinning, eyeless youths popped into view, looking right at him. He froze the spark in place, waiting for them to do something. Then he realized they were like the other frozen figures they had encountered: They were as still as statues.
“What is it?” Oris asked, “I heard you grunt.”
“Three children. Dead. Posed like the rest.”
“Aye...”
Akhil left the youths behind. More trails of blood wetted the walls and ceiling. Ceramic pottery lay shattered on the floor, their edges glistening with the stuff. Spatter marks streaked the contours of the hallway, consistent with blade wounds and lacerations. There was a fight here.
“You need to see this,” Oris said.
“What is it?”
“I lack the words to describe it. Follow the hallway all the way to the back and enter the central chamber. It looks like a meeting place where the town elders must have gathered.”
Akhil's spark flew by hints of carnage. Bloodied wing and handprints grasped the walls. Claw marks dug at the rugs, illustrating a tale of screaming and slaughter. Finally, he came upon a passage to the left and took it. He entered the chamber and stopped. There was a door laying across the ground, blasted from its hinges, which remained attached to the opening.
Beyond the threshold, the room was thick with the gray mist. All he could see was a small moon floating near the top of the chamber, wisps streaking across its image. He flew the spark closer and saw that it was actually another nytic lantern hanging from the ceiling. Directly below it, perhaps only visible because it was in such close proximity to the light source, were a set of horns. The rest of the body was obscured by the gray mist.
“Let me aid you,” Oris said.
Akhil watched as another spark flew closer to the figure to provide light. Few things unsettled the seasoned warrior anymore. But what he saw left him with an uneasy pit in his gut. The floor was covered in a blue lake, frozen blood from the dead. Crawling out of it were skins, not bodies, but skins. It was as if somebody had simply deflated the inhabitants of the village and now, their flaccid forms were crawling toward the figure in the center of the chamber. Their hands extended in pleading, their elongated faces with stretched, empty eye sockets, wailing. The figure in the middle sat on its throne of corpses, the only solid thing in the room. Lacerations flayed the skin from muscle, where it hung in strips.
It was from this figure that the fog poured. Its mouth hung open with its teeth bared, frozen in the midst of an angry exclamation. Its irises were dilated and ears bent backward as though it had gone feral. From its throat, the mist rolled forth, cascading down its chest before flowing across the ground. One of its arms was extended, finger raised and pointing. Initially, Akhil thought it might be frozen like the rest of the corpses throughout the village. No...there was something different about this one. It lacked the frost that glazed the others.
“He's alive,” Oris noted.
“What?”
Akhil moved his spark closer to see. His brother was right. It was very subtle, but the figure was, indeed, breathing. However, it betrayed no awareness of them at all. It showed no signs that it knew they were even present. He looked at its manic eyes, but they did not move. They did not even twitch. Other than the gradual rise and fall of its shoulders, it could have been a statue. Even the fog seemed to ignore the implied respiration, as it was a steady cascade.
“What is it?” The La'ark demanded.
“Possible survivor,” Akhil said, “sitting on a pile of corpses. Too early to say. Shows no awareness of us.”
“What is he pointing at?” Oris wondered.
“Hmmf. Don’t know.” Akhil followed the man's finger and found that it pointed to the wall slightly left to the entrance. He saw nothing significant about it, no secret compartment, banner, or artifact. No message written in blood.
“I am sending mine to the other side,” Oris said. Akhil grunted his acknowledgment as the orb left the chamber, leaving him obscured in fog so he could only see the finger poking out of it.
“Nothing,” Oris said a moment later, “nothing on the opposite wall either. Scouting the outside hallway...still nothing.”
“Bring it out here. Let me link to it,” Akhil said, opening his eyes. He moved his own spark until it hovered directly in front of the figure's finger and then turned it to face the wall. A moment later, Oris' orb flew from the building and aligned itself with the approximate location of the finger's trajectory. He found nothing on the brick.
“Hold it there,” Akhil said as he walked over the hovering sphere. Oris allowed him to link to it, which in turn, allowed both spheres to see each other through the walls. Not all sparks had the lore that allowed them to see each other through solid objects. In fact, it was a relatively new development. It was incredibly useful for scouting confined spaces like this. He used this lore to align them. Then he stood in front of Oris' sphere to follow the trajectory. His eyes settled on Vincent Cordell, who was currently sitting on the ground, fiddling with the shryken.
“What is it?” Oris whispered.
“It's pointing at him,” Akhil nodded.
“It can see him?”
“I don’t know.” Akhil gave Oris back his spark. “But I don’t like it. We will need to bring channelers in with us if...” In order to make alignment easier, he had left his spark facing the wall so it could see its brother. But now, it would not budge when he tried to move it.
“What now?”
Akhil didn’t answer. The conduit jiggled a little, but he couldn’t fly it. The orb was stuck on something. By wriggling it back and forth, he managed to move it in increments. Finally, he was able to pivot it freely. He turned it around only to have the figure's feral, manic-eyed snout fly into view. Its hand was clasped around the sphere, face pressed right up against it, looking right at Akhil. The shandan warrior uttered an expletive and leapt backward, taking a swing at the air. The path to the spark broke and its vision went dark.
He drew forth his weapon's ethnir and raised his blade, preparing to reignite himself if needed. He re-established the paths to his saluk. The weapon raised itself, posing like a serpent with its spike pointing at the door. Oris asked no questions, he simply followed his brother's lead. Akhil heard skittering echo from the hallway beyond the entrance, growing closer by the second. He commanded his men to raise their crossbows. Vases crashed, objects fell over. The skittering stopped just short of the entrance.
Akhil locked his eyes on the door, waiting in anticipation. Then the silhouette of a figure stepped into view and stood still, mist still cascading from its open mouth. Several channelers gasped, stepping back from the fog. The La'ark barked an order to stay away from it. The figure's head twitched in her direction, then it locked onto Akhil and Oris in rapid succession. Finally, it looked at all the soldiers aiming their crossbows at it. Its twitchy movements were uncanny. They resembled those belonging to a bird or an insect.
As the mist which had enshrouded it began to part, leaving only the substance falling from its mouth, more details of the figure were revealed. It had long cuts in its torso, each deep enough to expose bone. The membranes of its wings were torn to shreds, leaving only the digits radiating from its back like the claws of an arachnid. The clothes were plain, marked by patchwork and dirt. Perhaps he was a farmer...or used to be. Akhil did not need a channeler to tell him that the thing standing in front of them was no longer a person.
“Oy,” Oris said to a nearby soldier with lambent eyes, the creature snapped to look at him. “Stormspawn?”
“N-no...the mist...it may have a connection to the stormspawn...but whatever that...thing is, it's...” For a very brief moment it looked like he was going to be overwhelmed by whatever his senses were telling him, but he pulled it together. “It feels worse.”
“Tuls,” The La'ark barked, “can you tell us if this creature is sentient?”
“W-what?” Tuls stuttered. Akhil could see the relos was overwhelmed.
“Pull yourself together!” The La’ark said. “I need your senses. Is this being sentient?”
“Y-yes...” he said, “and...it is very intelligent.”
“Then I will address it.” She carefully brought her mount up behind Akhil and Oris while keeping it clear of the fog.
“No guarantee it will understand you,” Akhil warned.
“I am well aware of that. Keep your weapons raised.”
Akhil nodded. He was prepared to send the saluk flying toward this creature at any second.
“To whatever entity I am speaking to, I am The La'ark,” The La'ark began, “and this is my army. We come here representing Meldohv Syredel of Mid-Admoran, as well as Rydic and Sinyu Syredels. We are aided by the flyers of Gullreach. I will not waste time with speeches. We are here because our lands have been ravaged. Are you responsible for these attacks?”
It wasn’t paying attention to her. While she had been speaking, it had been fixating on Vincent. It became as still as a statue, all of its movements stopped save for its breathing. The La'ark may as well have ceased to exist for all the heed it paid her.
“Do you understand us?” she demanded.
Instead of responding, it raised a hand to point at Vincent, then it turned it over and beckoned him with its finger. Again, the movements were uncanny and rigid, as though it were nothing more than a puppet. When it curled its finger inward, it was more of a twitch than an articulated motion, as though something had to forcefully manipulate the digits in order to get them to bend. The La'ark looked over her shoulder at Vincent, then back at the creature.
“No,” she said, “whatever you want with him, you will not have him. You will deal with me.”
It ignored her, continuing to beckon Vincent to come forward. He stood behind Menik and Madrian in the doorway of one of the village houses, expression unreadable due to the helmet.
“If you do not answer me,” The La'ark said, “we will assume you are hostile and we will attack.”
Still, it completely ignored her as if it didn't understand her, or it was completely deaf.
“This is your last warning,” she said. No answer. So, she turned to a nearby soldier. “Shoot it.”
A crossbow thrummed and a bolt flashed through the air and...Akhil blinked. The creature continued to beckon Vincent with one hand. The other was now raised, clasping the arrow in its grip. It reacted so fast, he had not even seen it move. Yet it had caught the arrow. Now it turned its head to acknowledge The La'ark’s presence. She had its attention.
When it met her gaze, it raised the arrow to inspect it, then it looked back at her. It raised the arrow to one of its ears and shoved its tip down the ear canal. Blood spilled down the sides of its cheeks, but it betrayed no pain. It didn’t break eye contact even as it wriggled the shaft, drilling the projectile into its skull until the tip began to poke the other side. It pulled it back out the way it went in through, tearing out chunks of flesh. The arrow was slick with wetness, but the creature wasn’t done yet. It proceeded to shove the arrow up one of its nostrils, further and further until all that was left was the notch. Syrupy streams of blue dribbled from the front of its snout and leaked around its left eye.
The soldiers muttered to themselves as the figure pulled the shaft out without any regard for the mutilation it caused and began to skewer itself for the third time, thrusting the arrow into its maw and having the tip jut out the back of its neck. Then it pulled the shaft out and cast it aside. It was a message spoken without uttering a single word: you are not a threat to me.
“Destroy it.” she commanded.
