7.
Amalthus stood on the deck of his capital ship, absent-mindedly fiddling with the edge of one of his robe's sleeves, sliding the smooth silk back and forth between his fingers, as he gazed out at the roiling currents of the Cloud Sea.
His capital ship, unlike the Ardainian's flying fortresses, was not designed for warfare. It came with impressive armaments, true – there were few airships in the world that could hope to face it in one on one battle, especially now that the Ardainians were gone – but its hull was not laid down with thick armor. Instead it resembled nothing more than a beautiful collection of seashells, carved and twisting, spiraling into the sky, every inch of the ship inlaid with artwork crafted by the finest Indol had to offer. Though this made it much more vulnerable to enemy fire, it did offer a unique advantage: unburdened by armor, the Indoline capital ship was fast, much faster than other capital ships.
Not that it mattered. Amalthus had never intended this to be a warship. In his well-laid plans, the careful strings he had woven over centuries, heavy airship battle never featured for Indol. Not that he didn't have contingency plans – should the worst had happened, and Mor Ardain tried to invade Indol – but the Praetorium simply would not have had the industrial capacity to compete with Mor Ardain's factories. No, if the Clockwork Demon had ever turned its eye toward Indol, Amalthus had other plans for defense – spies, assassins, and diplomatic connections that ensured that if Mor Ardain ever faced Indol, it would be facing the world. Not to mention they would quickly find themselves cut off from the majority of access to blades. And so when building his capital ship, Amalthus had ordered it to be built less for war, and more for diplomacy. A grand symbol of Indol's culture.
Not that it mattered now, Amalthus supposed. Mor Ardain lay in ruin beneath the Cloud Sea, even now the flames of its fall visible on dark nights, as a dim orange glow somewhere far beneath the mists.
The Praetor closed his eyes, sighing. This was not how it was supposed to be. Mor Ardain's ruin had never been a part of his plan. But wise was Amalthus, cunning and clever. No plan of his ever relied on the success of a single step. He could proceed without Mor Ardain. The web he wove across history was robust. It could withstand the severing of a single thread.
Suddenly, without warning, memories flooded into his mind, as they had been of late. It was strange, something that had been happening since he had met with Rex and his group. And mildly concerning. Amalthus prided himself on the fortress of his mind, a mind more ancient and of greater breadth than any mortal could boast of. And one that he usually had complete control over.
This time, it was a memory of his mother. Shadowy echoes of her, her beaming face, so full of warmth and love. That was what Amalthus remembered the most about her. That gentle smile, the honest love, the only honest love he had known in his life. That, and her death.
Suddenly, he could taste it. The feel of leaves slapping against his face, of branches tearing at his clothes, blood in his mouth from a cut lip. His hand, in his mother's, as gasping, sobbing, she dragged him through the forests of Indol. From behind them, the shouts of Coeian soldiers, gunfire, the whine of bullets passing close by.
They had been running for what felt like hours, but could have been as short as ten minutes – all time seemed distorted by terror. And then his mother had glanced behind her, her face going almost blank with dread. And then she had looked down at Amalthus, and with a sob, tore her hand from his and shoved him.
Amalthus had stumbled backwards, in shock, falling off a cliff, down through thick, jagged branches, to come to a sharp stop some fifty feet below. The branches had slown his fall somewhat, but the impact still left him unconscious. To this day, he still hadn't known what his mother's intentions had been. Had she been trying to save him, hoping he'd survive the fall? Or had she been trying to kill him, to spare him the horror of what the Coeian soldiers would do to him? He didn't know. All he remembered was the sorrow, the feeling of betrayal, as he fell, looking up at his mother sobbing at the top of the cliff, as she vanished from sight.
He had woken hours later, his body sore and aching, dried blood matted to the back of his head, in the wilderness around him lit only by the pale light of a full moon. Sniffling, sobbing, he had called out for his mother. When no answer came, he had felt utterly lost, utterly uncertain what to do.
But even as a child, there had been steel in Amalthus. Perhaps cultivated by his father, who had been an Indoline soldier – not one of Indol's fearsome monk troops, but a simple farmer-soldier, conscripted into defense against the frequent invasions of Coeia. He had died in one of those invasions when Amalthus was very young, but Amalthus remembered him, vaguely, as a stoic yet jolly man, whom his mother had loved fiercely. A man who, whenever Amalthus had fallen, or hurt himself, had taught him to accept the pain. "Stand up, little wyrm," his father would laugh, puffing on a pipe, when Amalthus would show him his skinned knees or elbows. "Stand up and try again."
So Amalthus had stood up, steeled himself, and began the arduous task of climbing up the sheer cliff face, using the branches and rock crevices for purchase. Amalthus was no stranger to climbing. He had always been an active, explorative child, delighting in clambering up trees, or delving into old caves with his friends. Still, the cliff face was the tallest thing yet he had climbed, and with his body aching and broken. But sheer will saw him through.
It was nearly an hour later, and the night much darker, when, panting, he hoisted himself over the edge of the cliff. Laying in the grass, breathless, for a moment, he had looked around himself. And there, through the dense leaves of the forest, he had noticed the orange twinkling of a campfire.
Suddenly, the reality of his situation had hit home. Coeia had invaded. They had been running from soldiers. He was now all alone in the forest, at night, in Coeian-occupied territory, and someone had a campfire not two hundred yards away.
He had felt his whole body freeze. Even as a young child, he knew, he should flee. Sneak quietly through these woods, these woods he knew so much better than the Coeians, and try to make his way to Indol's lines. He had been through enough invasions to know this was the right thing to do.
And yet...something within him made him get to his feet, and creep slowly, quietly towards the campfire. Maybe his mother was there. Maybe he might be able to free her, and they could both make their way out of this together.
Quietly, deftly, he made his way towards the campfire, moving his feet so delicately that even dry leaves made no noise from his passing. A panther would have been jealous of his careful stealth.
But as he drew closer to the campfire, Amalthus realized he needn't have bothered. Three Coeians snored, loudly, around the flickering flames, too lazy and undisciplined – or drunk – to even set a guard. Amalthus trembled as one of them stirred in his sleep, muttering. Years later, he would recognize them for what they were – particularly undisciplined soldiers – but right now, they seemed like ogres out of some nightmare.
He was about to sneak away, when some golden glinting in the edge of the dancing shadows cast by the campfire caught his eye. Looking warily at the soldiers, he crept closer, and then clapped a hand to his mouth to keep himself from crying out in horror.
There, lying at the edge of the campfire, like some discarded trash, was a body, covered by dirty, bloodstained rags. The sheet covering its face was particularly wet with blood. The only part of it uncovered by these rags was an arm that lay limply on the ground. An arm with a coiling golden bangle glinting in the firelight.
Amalthus could still remember the birthday when his father had given that bangle to his mother as a gift. How his mother had laughed delightedly, and Amalthus has felt sheepish because the only gift he had been able to get for her were some wildlflowers he had picked. Until his father had winked at him slyly and and told his mother it was a gift from both of them. His mother, twirling in his father's arms, a crown of flowers woven from Amalthus' gift in her hair.
Something tore inside him, something ripped in two. A darkness that he had never even known could exist flared in his soul. He moved as if in a dream, stepping into the circle of light cast by the campfire. He bent, and hoisted up a rock, easily twice the size of his head, ignoring the burning in his arms as he carried it over to one of the Coeian soldiers, hoisting it above his head.
He paused, for a moment, considering the man. He was grizzled, his face covered in scars. Amalthus found himself wondering, what was the story behind each of those scars? How had this man come to be here, from where did the threads of his life lead to this moment?
The man's eyes flickered open, then, and Amalthus swiftly bought the rock down upon his face. Once, twice, three times. It didn't matter. It was the end of his story.
The other soldiers were stirring now. Amalthus grabbed a sword from the soldier's still-twitching body, sliding it from a black leather sheath at his belt. He knew a little of swords. The guard-captain of his village taught all boys from a very young age a bit about swordplay, limited to practice sessions with wooden sticks. He was just a child, no expert. But the lessons gave him the confidence to quickly grab the blade, and perhaps in this case, that was all that was needed.
Like a striking snake, Amalthus launched himself across the campfire at the nearest stirring soldier, his blade sliding into the man's head, who immediately went still. Amalthus lost his balance, and rolled into the shadows with the corpse, carried by his momentum.
The third soldier was up now, swearing drunkenly, fumbling at his belt for his pistol and his sword, stumbling to his feet. He had woken just soon enough to see one of his companions fall into the darkness, tackled by some shadow. And glancing to his left, he saw his other companion laying dead, his head crushed by a rock stained black by his blood.
"Shit, shit," he swore, raising his gun towards the darkness, firing off a round. "Come then, you dogs!" he cried. "Cowards, taking men in their sleep! Fight, fight like a man!"
Nothing. Silence from the darkness. And then, almost as if in answer, a stone came hurling out of the darkness, striking him square in the mouth. He swore again, spitting out cracked teeth, and raised his pistol, firing into the darkness, firing in the direction that the stone came from. Even as he did, another stone zipped in from another direction, above his forehead, sending blood into his eyes. He swung his gun around, and then swore once more as a stone struck his hand, sending his pistol falling to the ground.
The soldier fell to the ground, scrambling to retrieve his pistol, and Amalthus saw his chance. He rushed in with a howl, swinging his sword in a wide arc, but the soldier was more clever than Amalthus had given him credit for. He had only been pretending to look for his pistol. He flattened himself to the ground, beneath the arc of Amalthus' blade, and then with a snarl, reached out and grabbed the boy's foot.
Amalthus felt the air driven from him as he slammed into the ground, and desperately he began kicking, aiming blows at the soldier's face. He received only pain for his effort, as the soldier bought up his own blade to guard his face and Amalthus instead kicked directly into it, cutting deep into his foot.
"You," the soldier panted, as Amulthus desperately scrambled backward. Blood dripped down his face, but he still peered at the boy with one wild, grey eye, as he struggled to his hands and knees. "You're the little shit we were chasing earlier. I can't believe you did Jace and Carx in. I'm going to pop your head off for that." He clambered to his feet, crouching over Amalthus, raising his sword. "I'm going to-"
And suddenly the air was driven from him as Amalthus drew his legs up beneath him and kicked out as hard as he could, catching the soldier in the gut. The soldier stumbled backwards, then toppled over, landing in the campfire, sending red-hot burning embers dancing into the night as he sprawled among the hot coals.
He quickly jumped to his feet, cursing at the sharp pain, batting at the flames licking at his leathers. And then he remembered something.
Coeia did not manufacture its own guns; instead, they bought them from Mor Ardain, though the Clockwork Empire never sold them their best weapons. And this time, Mor Ardain had sold them a new weapon. He could still remember the disdainful look on Ardainian officer's face as he explained the weapon to them – the Ardainians didn't think highly of Coeian infantry, it was no secret. The new weapon, the Ardainian had explained, was called a grenade. Very useful, like carrying a small bomb in your pocket. But, he had warned, still unstable, when exposed to heat, and to demonstrate, he had made them stand back as he tossed one into a campfire…
The soldier shrieked, desperately trying to unbuckle his belt that flamed were licking at, from which still hung two of these new 'grenades.' "No, no no, no-" he gasped, as his fingers fumbled, unresponsive to his commands, until-
Amalthus had been crawling away from the campfire as fast as he could, when two deafening roars, one right after the other, tore through the forest, and he was suddenly showered with debris. He covered his head until it had stopped falling around him, and then, in the deathly quiet that followed, turned around slowly.
Flaming bits of wood scattered from the campfire all around the forest around him. Of the soldier, there was no sign. It was not until Amalthus, still nursing his foot, went around to stamp out the dozens of small fires spread from the campsite to prevent them from catching the forest on fire, that he found the soldier – or what pieces remained of him. Amalthus was no stranger to violence and death, even at that age – he had seen the mangled remains of farm animals who had been preyed upon by Vvolfs – but this was enough to make him step back, then double over, retching.
Eventually, he was satisfied that the forest was not going to burn down around him. The campfire was back in a somewhat normal state.
He sat by it for a moment, his hands around his knees, shaking.
And then he crawled to where his mother's body lay. He took her in his arms, his hand twining in hers. She was still warm. "Mother," he whispered, tears falling onto the dirty rags covering her body.
And then, to his astonishment, she stirred. Her hand pressed weakly into his. Dazed murmurs, soft, barely audible, came from beneath the sheet. "Is...that my Amalthus…?" she whispered, hoarsely. "All that noise...is..."
"Mom?" Amalthus gasped in wonder. His hand reached up to remove the bloody sheet from her face.
"No!" she cried, suddenly, with sharp strength, the most she could muster, still barely above a whisper, as she felt the rag being lifted from her face. "No...I don't want you to see...what they've done to me."
"I have to," Amalthus said, tears running down his face. "We need...you need water, we..."
"Amalthus, my love," she replied gently, "I am not leaving here."
Her words were like a knife to his heart. Amalthus stared into the night sky, aware only of his breaking heart, and the dull pounding pain in his foot.
Her hand squeezed his once more. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to leave you all alone in this world. My little wyrmling, I'm so sorry I won't get to see the man you'll grow up to be." Her hand squeezed his harder. "But...you have...a light, a strength...my little one, you are so beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, you won't lose that light. No matter...how dark the world is...that light in you will see you through. I love you, I love you, never lose your light."
"I promise, mom," Amalthus whispered to her. "I won't."
In response, she had not spoken. Instead, she began to softly hum a lullaby, one she had sang him since he was very small. He stayed there, by her side, holding her hand, as her humming grew weaker and weaker, until eventually it stopped. And then he had lingered still, until her hand grew cold in his.
When finally he rose from her side, daylight was shining down upon him. He spent the next day building her a pyre, stoking the flames white-hot. He salvaged what he could from the soldier's bodies – a sword, a pistol and some coin, as well as a pair of boots too large for his feet, and some coin. And he took the bangle from his mother's arm, thinking that he would keep it as memory, but knowing even then that it may come in handy to sell at some point. The soldier's bodies he left for the animals to scavenge, but that night he placed his mother's body on the pyre, and watched as the flames dances higher and higher into the night sky, the embers and sparks flying up to take place among the stars…
"Praetor. Praetor?"
Amalthus snapped out of his reverie with a start, whipping his head around to see who addressed him. "What?" he snapped.
Before him, on the deck, stood a curvaceous Indoline priestess, wearing sheer, diaphonous robes that achieved the remarkable effect of appearing priestly and yet scandalously revealing at the same time, with flashing sea-green eyes and short, bright red hair that exposed her pointed ears. She wore a smile at first, but seeing the look on Amalthus' face, her knees quaked beneath her, and she fell before him, bowing, her head to the deck. "Forgive me, Great Wyrm, if I have interrupted-" she began babbling.
Amalthus sighed. "Rise. Rise, on your feet, that's a command." He should have known, from her clothing, that she was a member of the Dragon Cult.
Religion and philosophy in Indol was split into many various schools, and was the great passion of the Indoline state in general. Some worshipped the Architect, others worshipped the Titans, still others were more concerned with philosophy than worship. Still, the one dogma among them was that they must only ever rise to the level of debate with the others, and the one heresy that they must resort to violence over philosophical differences. Those who rose to Praetor were considered to have "transcended" these different schools, and represent all of them. In reality, most Praetors were considered to represent the schools they came from, and it was considered a "win" for a school if they got a member into the position of Praetor. Rhadallis, for example, Amalthus' predecessor, came from the School of Holy Mystery, a philosophical school that held that the Architect's will was harder to discern than most thought, and which concerned itself with interpreting it by contemplation of the natural world, unwilling to declare very much at all with certainty. Rhadallis himself – jackal that he had been – had even written some thoughtful texts on the subject before he became Praetor.
Amalthus was considered perhaps the one exception to this – the one Praetor who really WAS considered to have transcended all schools of thought. This was because of the...manner, in which he had risen, the length of his rule, and the fact that he hadn't really chosen a school before he became Praetor – he had skipped that step. He had helped this perception with prolific writings, after he became Praetor, making elegant arguments for and against every school. This, and the school's rebuttals, and his rebuttals to their rebuttals, had been compiled into an Anthology - "Dialogues with Amalthus" - which was now considered one of the more important religious and philosophical texts in Indol.
Still, if there was one school that came closest to claiming Amalthus as "theirs", it was the Dragon Cult. They were a remnant of the religion their ancestors in ancient Judicium had practiced. While all Indoline enjoyed the aesthetics of dragons, the Dragon Cult took it a step further. They worshiped what they called "The Form Draconic", which was not just physical, but spiritual and mental as well. Will, they said, was what mattered to them, the divine Will to shape the world as you wished, to make it what you wanted. They didn't necessarily lay claim to Amalthus by his advocacy of them. But the day after he had...taken over from Rhadallis, their prophets had declared him "Dragon-Souled", and they were the first school to recognize his legitimacy, and his closest supporters since.
Still, they took their liberties with him. They made no secret that they considered it of utmost importance that he "breed", and Fan regularly told him of how their priestesses would approach her for advice on how to seduce him, asking as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Many outsiders to Indol often mistook the modest dress of Indoline as some sort of religious dictate. In reality, the Indoline merely had a tendency towards conservative clothing. If anything, the various religious schools were constantly finding ways to violate this modesty. The Dragon Cult certainly did – their dress was stylized as bright, colorful scales, and cloaks designed to look like dragon's wings. But this was nothing compared to the priestesses they sent to seduce Amalthus into producing offspring. If anything, this priestess before him, with her nearly-transparent robes tied to cling alluringly to her body, was one of their more restrained attempts. He had seen Dragon Cult priestesses come to court dressed so revealingly that courtiers had covered their children's eyes and the guards called for their arrest. But never did they seem embarrassed or ashamed – the priestesses bared themselves with stoic pride.
It might have been a problem, if Amalthus had continued to rudely rebuff their attempts to breed. But most of these priestesses, though they might approach him boldly, found the intensity of his presence simply too much to bear. They were often sent back to their temples not because he had refused them, but because nerves got to them. More than once, one had fainted in his presence once he actually began to speak to them. The Dragon Cult saw this as their own failure, not his – they had failed to find a worthy consort for the "Great Wyrm."
The one before him was looking like she might faint at any point. She was trembling, trying to sway her hips seductively, but in the combined effect merely looked ridiculous. "Priestess," Amalthus said coldly. "Did you have something to say?"
"Ah...yes." The priestess seemed to remember herself, clearing her throat. "We are...ah, ready to embark for Uraya at your orders. The captain's dining hall has been cleared and prepared for your council. After the feast, of course. I can...escort you."
Amalthus turned away from her, waving his hand idly. "I will join for the council. I do not have the appetite for a feast."
"Are you sure? They have strawberries! I hear they're your favorite..."
Amalthus glanced down at the priestess in surprise, and the priestess looked surprised herself. She clapped her hands to her mouth, almost wide-eyed, as if she couldn't believe she had just spoken to her "Great Wyrm" so casually. Well, well, Amalthus thought to himself. Some steel, instead of this cringing servitude. "What is your name, priestess?"
"Aralrae," she managed to squeak out.
Amalthus held her pinned in his gaze for a long moment, considering. Truth be told, he missed having Fan by his side. It was foolish, he knew – she was a blade, after all – but her absence, the lack of her idle chatter and advice...she had written him, since the day of Mor Ardain's destruction, to inform him of her safety and location. In Leftheria, watching over Rex. Rex, now….he had thought that Rex capturing Mythra was a long shot, but he hadn't expected failure so complete from the boy. He would need...tutoring. Luckily, Amalthus had a way to reach out to him. "Well, Aralrae," Amalthus said, softly, even as his mind was elsewhere, "Why don't you take me to this feast, then."
"Of course!" With only a bit of hesitation, the priestess reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him close to her. Amalthus, however, was already lost in thought, distracted from her presence, looking up into the stars.
8.
Despite his distraction, Amalthus allowed himself more than he usually did at the feast, sipping idly from a goblet of wine, and snacking on a small plate of strawberries and cream – though it was only a stern look from him that kept Aralrae from practically climbing into his lap and feeding them to him herself.
The atmosphere was generally lighthearted. Many of his advisors thought that a great victory had been won with the destruction of Mor Ardain. Of course, many of them had not been privy to his plans. They simply saw the destruction of a great, destructive threat, and the fact that it catapulted Indol into prominence – now by far the richest and most powerful Titan-state in Alrest. They lacked vision. The vision to see that the greatest victory was never to completely destroy your enemies and rivals, but to turn them to your own purposes.
Finally, one of his advisers raised a goblet to the air, proposing a toast to Mor Ardain's destruction. Amalthus felt anger flare within him, gripping the edge of his chair; those who were looking at him and saw the expression on his face gasped, jumping back from the table.
"ENOUGH," Amalthus roared. Or so it seemed. He spoke at a tone barely reaching a shout, but the entire room immediately became deathly silent.
He cast his eyes about the room, each adviser quaking and looking away from his stare. Finally, he pinned the man who had proposed the toast with his gaze, a tall, gaunt military officer. Amalthus held the man there until he began to shake with fear, and finally his goblet toppled from his trembling hands, clattering against the table, sloshing wine across it. "F-forgive me-" he stammered.
"And what," Amalthus asked quietly, "Do you think you need forgiveness for?"
"Praetor?"
Amalthus held up a hand to pause all movement in the room – some of his advisers had attempted to make their way to the exit. He folded his hands in his lap, never taking his burning gaze from the offending man. "What is it that you think you did wrong?"
"If...anything, anything I said, offended, Praetor, I beg, I beg you for forgive-"
"I don't want your grovelling," Amalthus softly intoned, his every word like a sword strike. "I want your reason. What do you think you did wrong?"
"I don't know," the man moaned.
"You don't know." Amalthus let the words hang in the air for a long moment. He stared around the room, at his advisers now backed up to the walls. "To your seats. Now."
The room was filled with the sound of scraping chairs for a moment, as the men and women who had backed away from him in fear returned to their seats in trepidation. He noted, with some approval, that Aralrae had not left the table. She had remained at his side, staring at him with rapt attention.
Amalthus let silence fill the air for a moment. "We are not here," he spoke into the silence, "To ghoulishly celebrate the death of a nation. Evil men seized the helm of Mor Ardain, yes. But for every jackal and butcher, there were a thousand who may have proven their worth. A thousand who never got their chance for redemption. Burning beneath the Cloud Sea are the broken bodies of children and innocents. The death of those worthy. The death of those who never had a chance to be prove they could be saved. And you want to sit here, and drink your wine, feast, and laugh at their ruin." Amalthus sighed, then stared at the table before him. "It reminds me," he said quietly, "Of Rhadallis."
A murmur ran through the room. Amalthus almost never mentioned his predecessor, except in times of great rage. Memories of Amalthus' coup – for truly, that was what it had been – had faded long ago, and even at the time it had been covered up, Amalthus always having presented himself as being legitimately elected to the position of Praetor after Rhadallis died. But still, it was no secret that Amalthus had a special loathing for the man who had inhabited the office before him.
The Praetor's eyes flicked upward, pinning the man once more. "Get out," he said simply. "Get out of my sight."
The room was quiet as the man quickly fled, filling the room with a breeze as he left the door open in his haste.
Amalthus sighed, and then gave the rest of his advisers a gentle smile. "I apologize for the outburst," he said simply. "Please, do not let it ruin the feast. How about we discuss the distribution of our aid supplies to Uraya?"
The next hour was taken up with subdued discussion of their plans for once they arrived in Uraya. In all honesty, they required very little input from Amalthus. Eventually he excused himself, quietly sweeping out of the room and onto the deck, gazing up at the stars as the Cloud Sea swept by beneath him.
"That...was amazing," came a soft voice from behind him.
Amalthus glanced around. Aralrae had followed him out of the dining hall, and was staring at him now, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "I...I always wondered," she murmured. "What was it that the Prophets had seen in you that made them declare allegiance? What about you so convinced them? Oh, now I know, I know. I swear, before my eyes in there, you grew a thousand miles tall. Upbraiding those petty little men, oh, they are not worthy of you. You really are Dragon-Souled. I have never been so glad to serve a Great Wyrm such as you, oh..." She trembled, and then drew close to him. "Take me to your bed. I will bear you a great hatchling, I swear, it would be a crime for your soul to go without an heir."
Amalthus looked down at her skeptically. "And what," he asked, "If I said yes?"
Aralrae shivered, opened her mouth, and then slumped, fainting, in his arms.
Amalthus deftly caught her, lifting her light frame. He glanced around the deck, and then gently laid her in a lounge chair. He paused for a moment, and then checked her pulse. Yes, it was fine, she had just fainted. He paused a moment, then removed his outer robe, draping it over her frame against the night chill. "Congratulations," he told her quietly. "You've gotten closer than most."
And then he left, silently making his way to his quarters.
10.
Amalthus sat in his private room. It was spacious, certainly, though not opulent. Just enough room for a desk, a bed, and a pair of chairs. All the wood in the room – the bedposts, the chair legs – were carven intricately in the form of dragons.
He sat in one of these chairs, pondering his outburst in the dining hall. Long had he dealt with the decadence and glib insincerity that the upper classes, regardless of nation, tended to become infected with. Truth be told, Indol was much better than most – because of his firm hand – in that regard, but one could never fully prevent that ghoulish brand of idiocy from seeping in. It had always enraged him, true. There were days when his mind danced with visions of gallows while he had to listen to the petty nastiness of high-class courtiers. But out of necessity, he often kept his temper in rein. Their imbecility aside, they were tools to be used, and they could be useful if turned to the right purposes. But tonight he had dismissed a carefully selected adviser on the whim of his rage.
What was behind the outburst? What was this instability he was experiencing? Was it because everything drew, so close now, to the end? Perhaps that was it. The excitement of the web he had woven drawing tighter, ever tighter. An adviser here or there was no longer a key component. He could afford to dismiss them out of simple disgust. He wondered what would happen to the man. Maybe he would stay in Uraya once they touched down, too afraid to return to Indol.
Uraya. Uraya…
Another unbidden memory floated to the forefront of his mind at the thought of Uraya. The land of mercenaries. A memory of an Urayan mercenary he had known long ago.
This was long after his mothers death. Years and years, when Amalthus had grown from a small, scared child to a young man. After years of providing for himself through whatever means he could – scavenging, relying on the charity of Indol's temples – Amalthus had finally conceded he was getting nowhere and joined up with the Indoline military. He had resisted, for some time. The memory of the violent deaths of the Coeian soldiers at his hands as a small child had scarred him – particularly the horrific violence of the last soldier's death – and he had never been comfortable with the idea of killing.
But he had spoken to Indoline recruiters, who had offered him an opportunity – if he tested himself and found himself compatible with blades, he would be elevated to officer status immediately. And he would be further elevated if he was willing to offer his blade up for an experimental program. And at that rank, he wouldn't be required to fight on the front lines. He would only be expected to fight if his position came under attack. Self-defense, they called it.
So he had conceded. Of course, he would come to find out that the concept of "self-defense" could be stretched quite far by the military.
And so he had bonded with a blade, and that was how he met Minoth. The wry, artistic dark blade, sporting a pair of gunblades, had been the first companion Amalthus had known for a long time. Minoth was always independent-minded for a blade. Though, after his military training, over the years, Minoth would begin to grow more distant from him. Amalthus never knew what it was, though it tore at him more than Minoth ever knew. They would find themselves disagreeing, arguing more as the years passed, and it only grew worse after Minoth became a Flesh Eater. Amalthus wondered if Minoth had blamed him for the unsuccessful process – though that could hardly be called fair, he and Minoth had talked it over, and Minoth had agreed, before the process was carried out. Or maybe it was simply that after becoming a Flesh Eater, Minoth didn't need to be tethered to him at all any more. They always maintained a professional working relationship – and Amalthus was particularly skilled with Minoth's gunblades – but they were never quite as close as they had been in the beginning.
Several years after his training, Indol declared war on Coeia, for a change, and landed an invasion there. And this was how Amalthus found himself in a fortified position in Coeian territory, with Minoth, feeling a bit alone and isolated.
Indol had gathered all her strength for this invasion, sending not just her own troops, but hiring many Urayan mercenary bands. The mercenaries were disdainful, for the most part, of the average Indoline troops – though they gave Indol's warrior-monks, feared even then, a wide berth. These were the early days of the warrior-monk training – it had begun only a little before Amalthus was born – and it was constantly in flux, but it had already gained a reputation for having utterly brutal training, and producing soldiers of a particular ruthlessness. The monks, for their part, showed no interest in either their fellow Indoline or the mercenaries whatsoever. They remained silent, disciplined, behind their faceless white helms.
Amalthus' position placed him as commander of the guard at the field hospital, which was how he met Rollo. Though most of the hospital was staffed by drivers bonded to healing blades, Amalthus sometimes assisted too, when they were short-handed or overwhelmed by patients. He may not have a healing blade, but he had enough knowledge of mundane first aid to handle some of the less wounded soldiers. And even when they were not overwhelmed, Amalthus liked to walk through the hospital, and talk to the soldiers coming back from the front lines.
One day, they were particularly overwhelmed by a returning raiding party that had come under ambush from Coeian forces; most of the raiding party had been made up of a band of Urayan mercenaries. The head nurse, a stout, stern woman with an odd blade that looked like some sort of strange gigantic nopon, had directed Amalthus to tend to the less wounded among the group.
Rollo was a large, broad-shouldered Urayan with sun-darkened skin and a mess of green hair, dressed in dark black leathers and broad-toed metal boots, hissing as he clutched an arm that dripped blood. He glared at Amalthus as he approached, frowning. "What's this? You don't even have a blade! I want a healer with a bloody blade, you hear?"
"Oh, I have a blade," Amalthus retorted. He twirled his hands, and one of Minoth's gunblades appeared in them. "You want to be healed with this?"
Rollo groaned, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Fine. I swear, can't even get a cute nurse to tend my wounds. You Indoline are absolutely killing me here. Thank the Architect you pay good."
He held out his arm, which at first glance seemed badly mangled, but after Amalthus cut away the torn leather and washed the wound, turned out to just be scored by a series of broad, but rather shallow cuts. "Look at this!" Amalthus snapped, shaking the arm in Rollo's face. "The way you were crying, I thought you at least broke a bone. You've got a severe case of skinned elbow, you baby."
Rollo looked at him in shock, until Amalthus laughed at him, deftly wrapping the arm in bandages. The the Urayan had roared in laughter back at him. "So you lizards DO have a sense of humor!" He flexed his arm, waving it back and forth, after Amalthus secured the bandages. "Not bad," he mused. "Course, would have been better having a cute nurse with an actual blade..." he shrugged, then glanced Amalthus up and down. "Well. I guess you're kinda cute. What's your name?"
"I guess you're kinda desperate," Amalthus retorted with a sharp smile. "I'm Amalthus."
"HAH! I like you. I'm Rollo." The Urayan grinned, then leapt to his feet, putting a hand on his hip. "Listen, Malthy, how about you drop by the Urayan tents later." He held his hands up before Amalthus could say anything. "Look, it's not what you think, I ain't inviting you to come dancing for us. Just, you know, my mercs and you Indol boys don't talk much, and it isn't good for morale – men always fight better with a little camraderie, you know? You seem like you got a sense of humor to you, I think it would be good for camp morale to see some of the Indol boys hanging out in our tents from time to time. 'Course, if you want to dance for us too, I won't stop you."
Amalthus paused for a moment, considering. He had noticed himself, a rift between the Indol forces and the mercenaries they fought beside. He nodded. "Alright. No dancing, though. Not unless you pay me."
"You say that, but you might get just that!" Rollo roared. "Come by after you're up on your shift here. We Urayans don't give our soldiers curfew, we're usually up pretty late. Bring booze!"
And so Amalthus had found himself, later that night, carrying a bottle of Indoline whiskey to the Urayan tents. Whiskey was usually contraband in the camp, but when war had been going on for as long as it had been here, with people dying every day, rules broke down. And it was hard to argue against it sometimes. Who could deny a man a drink, when the next day you might be asking him to die for you?
The Urayan tents were a stark difference from the Indoline ones. In the Indoline camps, by dusk, each soldier was usually in his bunk, reading a book or writing letters home; they weren't there by mandatory order, but it would be unusual to see an Indoline up so late. The Urayan's mercenary tents, by contrast, roared with life. Large bonfires lit up the ground beneath the tents; burly mercenaries laughed in the flickering lights, some playing cards, others tossing knives at targets, still others tearing their shirts off and brawling with each other. And they did have dancers, swinging their hips seductively in the fire's light; though some were draped seductively over the particularly severely wounded. Some of the mercenaries were missing limbs, eyes, or fingers, and each of these men all had a woman hanging off their arm. Urayan mercenary tradition, Amalthus knew – though not all mercenary bands did it – to hire dancers to keep up morale. Many of the men missing arms or legs didn't look particularly satisfied by the conciliatory prize of a pretty girl on their arm, though.
Mercenaries glanced at him curiously as he stepped into the firelight, though Amalthus was not intimidated. He glanced around, wondering if Rollo was somewhere nearby, then shrugged, joining in a knife-throwing contest, betting the men shots of whiskey that he could out-throw them. The Urayans roared laughter, betting him that Indoline liquor was weak as piss, though they shut up after Amalthus scored a bullseye and they had to take their first shots. Three tosses later, and the mercenaries were swearing that Indoline must have three livers. "How else d'you HANDLE this stuff?!" one of the mercenaries groaned, downing another shot, coughing as his throat was set on fire. "It's like drinking snake venom!"
"That's one of the ingredients," Amalthus replied idly, flicking a knife towards the target expertly, landing another bullseye.
"ROLLO!" one of the mercenaries cried. "You invited this Indol madman, didn't you?! He's trying to kill us!"
And then Rollo was there, striding out of the shadows, a bottle in his hand. "I told you," he said merrily, wagging a finger under the mercenary's noses, "I've had Indoline liquor before! I told you not to underestimate them! They don't drink often, but when they do, they drink hard! Malthy, glad to see you made it." He tossed an arm around Amalthus, hugging him close. "This is the one I told you guys about, my nurse. Just when I thought I was done for, he descended from the heavens, like an angel, healing my most grievous wounds!"
"Grievous?" Amalthus scoffed. "I've seen children hold in their tears over more serious wounds than you had."
"Tongue like a knife!" Rollo clutched his chest in mockery. "Right here, you stab at me!"
Amalthus stayed among the mercenaries, Rollo by his side, late into the night. He declined the arm wrestling and brawling contests – he doubted his lithe frame could compete with the burly Urayans at that – but at knife-throwing and cards, he could win handily. He tried to drink moderately, but that was almost impossible with how freely the alcohol flowed among the mercenaries, and he found his head swimming after a few hours. After a while, the noise and the light getting to him, he excused himself, wandering out of the light of the campfires, away from the tents, to sit down among the grass and look up at the stars.
He had only been away from the tents for a few minutes when Rollo joined him, collapsing into the grass next to him, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He took a deep drag from it, blowing out smoke in an eerie cloud lit by the moonlight. "You alright, Malthy?"
"Yeah," Amalthus replied. "Just not used to partying all night. Don't know how you mercs do it."
"Well. We try to rotate in and out the men on patrol. Most of the ones who actually got shit to do tomorrow are already asleep." He was quiet for a moment. "Y'know, I'm surprised. I thought you'd be coming by tonight with your blade."
"Minoth?" Amalthus remained quiet for a moment. "He...sort of does his own thing."
"I thought blades and their drivers were really close, though."
"We used to be closer, I guess. He's still a close friend. Just we disagree on a lot. More nowadays, it seems. I can't blame him, I suppose. War with Coeia brings out the worst in me."
"Why's that?"
Amalthus glanced over at Rollo, who was peering intently at him in the darkness. "Something that happened a long, long time ago."
"You gonna get mysterious on me? C'mon, man, these things always feel better when you get them off your chest. Look, I'll tell you why I'm here. Why I jumped at the opportunity for the assignment when I heard it was a mission against Coeia." Rollo took another drag from his cigarette. "I was raised by my uncle – mom and dad got killed by the Coeians when I was really young, too young to even remember them. Now, that would be reason enough, but that ain't the reason. My uncle was a great man, great mercenary – infinite patience, too, for all my bratty little antics. I acted out a lot as a kid, and he was always kind and gentle, and at the same time, taught me everything I knew about fighting. Loved him. Owed him everything. Well eventually, I set out on my own, join my own merc group. He retires to a big old ranch, just like he always wanted. He had only been there for about a year when Coeia invaded again. I learn their raiding ships touched down worryingly close to my uncles ranch. So I rush there with the boys, and you know what I find?"
"They had killed him," Amalthus said quietly.
"No. Well, yeah. Sort of. But it wasn't just that they had killed him. Killing, see, I can understand. War is war. He's an old merc, he probably wasn't going to take any shit from invading parties. If they killed him, I would have been pissed, sure, but I wouldn't hate them for it. You know? No, they didn't just kill him." Rollo flicked his cigarette out into the grass, staring bitterly straight ahead. "They tortured him. Tied him to a post and used him as target practice. Beat him. Mutilated him. And when, by some miracle, he survived all that, they left him there to bake to death in the sun. He...he was still alive, when I found him like that, see? But he asked me to kill him...and...I knew what was left of him...wasn't gonna have any sort of life, the state they had left him in….I told him I'd get him help, but he begged me..."
Rollo was quiet, staring down at the ground beneath his boots. "Other countries, they don't do that," he continued. "You know, Indol and Uraya went to war once. Small war, of course. Not over the Titans themselves. I didn't fight in it, my uncle told me about it. Was over the mining rights on some chain of smaller Titan islands. When I was little, I thought he hated you guys for it – some of his friends died. But when he talked about it, he said you were decent. He got captured, and they treated him right...gave him food and shelter. Said the worst thing you guys did to him was try to make him read one of your philosophy books. And they even asked him what the Urayan funeral rituals were like, so they could give their enemies a decent burial. But Coeia..."
Rollo shook his head. "They're a nation of bandits. They always have been. I know why they torture; they've been doing it to themselves all their history, it must seem normal to them to do it when they raid other countries. I don't even think Coeia's the biggest threat. Mor Ardain arms them and uses them to keep other countries weak. Mor Ardain's the bigger threat if you ask me. And Coeia's a bunch of idiots for going along with it. One day they're gonna stop being useful to Mor Ardain, and the Clockwork Empire is gonna eat them alive. But Mor Ardain didn't do that to my uncle, Coeia did." Rollo leaned back, taking out another cigarette, lighting it with a quiet flick. "So that's why I wanted to fight them. They need to be put down, like the rabid dogs they are. Alright, you know my big sad story. Now how about you?"
Amalthus was quiet for a long moment. He had never really told anyone what had happened to him earlier in his life. Even Minoth had only heard the most general of details, that his parents had been killed by Coeia. But Rollo had been so open with him, and maybe it was because he was a bit drunk, but….
"I've….never really told anyone about this," Amalthus began haltingly. And then it had all come rushing out of him, like a flood. Memories that he had kept long repressed, never letting his mind think about them. He wasn't even aware of the world around him as he relived the moment, like it had just happened afresh, wasn't even aware of Rollo until he heard him calling out: "Malthy! Malthy!"
Amalthus snapped back to reality. He had clenched his fists so tightly that his nails had bitten deeply into them; blood dripped from his hands, and they were almost difficult to open. His face was soaked in tears; humiliated, he swore, wiping them away. "Don't...damn it, don't tell anyone about this," he muttered, his throat raw; he wondered if he had been screaming without realizing it. "I shouldn't cry about this, it's been so long-"
"No, man – Architect, look at your hands. C'mon, give them here." Rollo took Amalthus' trembling hands in his, wincing at the deep scores in them. "Look, this is gonna sting a little," he muttered, pulling out a flask and pouring some strong-smelling alcohol over the wounds.
Amalthus couldn't stop himself from shaking. "This is so humiliating," he said, unable to bring himself to meet Rollo's eyes. "Please, I'm begging you, just don't tell anyone about this. Shit, I'll pay you, or something, just..."
"Malthy, man," Rollo said gently. "It's fine. Come on man, look at me. I don't think any less of you." He smiled at Amalthus as the Indoline lifted his head. "Believe me," Rollo said, as he wove some bandages around Amalthus' hands, "That shit was totally fucked. You never told anyone about it? No wonder it got you like this."
"It's not like your story was any less..." Amalthus began.
But Rollo shook his head. "Nah, man. I mean, yeah. It was messed up. But by the time it happened to me, I was an adult, I had seen war, I knew how to deal with it...well...at least a bit. But this happened to you when you were a little kid." He sighed, tearing off the end of the bandages, tying them a bit clumsily on Amalthus' hands. "There. I guess now we're even." He gave Amalthus a wan smile. "You got some crazy intense eyes, you know that man?"
"Are...what the hell kind of comment is that?" Amalthus half-laughed in astonished skepticism. "Are you telling me my eyes are pretty right now?"
"No! Hey, I never said pretty, I said intense. It's just...I mean...you were hurting yourself, I wanted to get up and stop you, but those eyes..." Rollo shook his head. "It was like you stuck a needle in me and pinned me to the ground."
Amalthus looked away from Rollo once more. He was still humiliated by his outburst. He got to his feet, laughing softly as Rollo's clumsy bandages already began to fall away from his hands. "I'm...sorry for acting so unprofessional," he said softly, still hiding his face from Rollo's gaze. "Look, I'll talk to some of the Indoline men and tell them to come visit you guys. I think I know a few men who'd be able to withstand Urayan mercenary parties. I just ask again, please, don't tell them about this. I can't afford to lose respect with my men."
"Fuck 'professional'," Rollo snapped. "So what, you're not gonna come back yourself?"
"I don't think it's a good idea now that you've seen me like this," Amalthus murmured quietly. He began to walk away, but Rollo grabbed his arm.
"No, stop right there. Stop, stop acting embarrassed, you got nothing to be ashamed of. Damn you Indoline, all your stoicism. There's nothing wrong feeling a little fucked up from what happened to you. Look, you don't want to come back, that's up to you. But I'd like it if you would."
"Why?" Amalthus asked, not turning around.
"Because I like you, Malthy. I think you're...a real cool cat."
Amalthus froze, then slowly turned around. A mocking smile grew across his face. "A...cool cat?" he asked.
"I...uh, yeah." Rollo frowned defensively. "It's an Urayan saying. Don't make fun of me."
Amalthus laughed dryly, and Rollo let go of his arm, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. "Alright," Amalthus said finally. "I'll come back. And I'll bring more Indol whiskey. Next time, I'll bring the real hard stuff."
"Real hard stuff? What could be harder than whiskey with snake venom in it?"
"Well, we have one drink that is literally just snake venom."
"ARCHITECT!"
And so Amalthus' friendship with Rollo had started. Over the course of the next year, as the war wore on, Amalthus would become closer to him than he had been to anyone since his family had died. At first, he simply visited the Urayan tents to party with the mercenaries, but soon enough, he found Rollo visiting him in the Indoline encampment. They'd eat meals together, spend the time off they had together. Rollo would tell Amalthus old mercenary war stories, either ones he had lived personally or stories of old legends, and Amalthus would tell Rollo of the time he had spent scavenging, which despite the struggle and the poverty he still considered one of the happiest in his life, with all the wonders he had seen deep beneath the Cloud Sea.
Amalthus found himself worrying for Rollo's safe return, found himself cursing the Coeians in sudden, hot anger whenever Rollo returned wounded. And they bonded over their hatred for the Coeians as well. Rollo would brag to him how many he had killed while on patrol, which Amalthus found a little grim at first; but Rollo was right, their soldiers were essentially bandits, rabid dogs who needed to be put down. Minoth, however, definitely disapproved of this dark turn, and Amalthus found himself getting into more and more heated arguments with his blade. Minoth had begun to disapprove of the entire war, saying that every day it seemed like there was less of a political goal and more like they were merely trying to wound Coeia as deeply as they could; Amalthus would shoot back that whatever else Coeia was, her military was beyond redemption, it was an ugly business, but many of her soldiers were too accustomed to torture and simply needed to die.
Rollo continued to flirt with Amalthus as well, and though Amalthus was certain it was just his way of joking and teasing, though sometimes the Urayan seemed awfully earnest, Amalthus found himself blushing at the compliments on occasion. He didn't see Rollo romantically, at least he did not think he did; it grew into something almost more than that. For the first time in his life, at least since his childhood, he opened his heart to someone, and it felt right; it felt like new life breathed into a withered forest; like a salve poured onto an infected wound. He would die for Rollo, gladly, and knew Rollo would do the same for him, and though he felt foolish, sometimes, in the privacy of his tent, he wept from the sheer happiness of having someone like that in his life after so many years of friendlessness, of betrayal, of keeping his heart guarded and closed because that was what it took to survive. It might not be romantic, he wasn't sure what it was, but he loved Rollo, with all his heart.
This continued for well on over a year, until the day came to break camp. The front lines had been pushed forward far enough; they were to move their entire fortified position up further along the plains of Coeia, closer to where the current front lines were. They did not take much of their position with them; they left behind the structures that had been erected over their time there, for the position was to be filled, behind them, by a strategic command post and fallback position should the fortunes of war reverse.
After nearly a month of marching, they came upon their new position. This was deep in the heart of Coeia indeed: Before their position had been within the wilderness, but now they were marching over paved roads, and the burnt out shells of buildings occasionally dotted the landscape. Coeia, it was said, was in deep panic; they were now a mere two hundred miles from their capital of Omrantha, and yet so devastated were the Coeian forces that even this territory was considered largely safe from reprisal. Whispers were that Coeia was begging the Mor Ardain government for help; many of the soldiers feared that the Clockwork Empire's black iron may one day appear on the horizon, but their officers assured them that any new diplomatic developments or a deployment of Ardainian forces would come with plenty of warning.
While the military engineers poured concrete and hammered wooden frames into the ground to establish defenses, many soldiers were asked to scout out around the new location. This area was already fairly mapped, and no resistance was expected, but the camp commanders wanted to know the location of possible resources should they somehow be cut off from supply lines: Food, fresh water, possible evacuation routes should they come under heavy attack.
And so for the first time Amalthus found himself outside the walls of a fortified compound, strolling through a strangely pleasant Coeian countryside. If it was not for the burnt out farm that he was scouting, you'd never have known this was the midst of a country at war.
His job was done quickly enough; there was little in his area to scout other than the farm, which had an apple orchard in the back, and a small stream trickling through it – not nearly enough to provide fresh water for a contingent of soldiers. He sat in the grass, scanning the horizons with a pair of binoculars, chewing on an apple. He could see, here and there, other soldiers poking around their assigned areas, rifles slung across their backs.
And then he spotted it. Across the fields, atop a tall cliff carved into the side of a long, ambling hill by a waterfall, almost hidden by the small cluster of trees at the top. Some form of manor. Probably abandoned by now. He swung his binoculars around, to find that it was none other than Rollo who was scouting out this location. Still very far away, not yet at the top of the cliff – just beginning to make his journey up the hill towards it.
Amalthus put away his binoculars and got to his feet. If he hurried, he could catch up to Rollo and join him in his search of the manor. The mercenary was far away, still way too far for Amalthus to shout to.
He started across the plains, at a slow jog, toward the hill.
But as he tried to catch up, it seemed he had underestimated Rollo's speed. He was gaining on him, but only slowly. By the time he was at the bottom of the hill, Rollo was already disappearing into the trees that dotted the middle of its slope. He tried calling out, as loud as he could, and for a moment, through his binoculars, he thought he saw Rollo glancing around, but frustratingly the mercenary then shrugged and disappeared into the forest.
Amalthus tsked to himself, frustrated, and started up the slope, doing his best to gain on Rollo. But it wasn't until he was at the top of the hill that he spotted Rollo again, this time, indeed much closer, but only a glimpse of him: Rollo quickly disappeared inside the manor at the top of the hill, closing its door behind him.
Amalthus paused for a moment, catching his breath from the hard climb, before walking into the clearing that led to the manor.
And then he heard gunshots. Gunshots from inside the house.
His heart seized with fear, and shedding his pack, he sprinted the rest of the way to the house. Rollo, he thought, might have been shot, might even yet lie bleeding out his life. Without a second thought, he threw open the front door, raising his rifle as he quickly scanned the rooms in the house, which while decorated nicely looked as if it might have been looted already of all the easy-to-carry goods; in many rooms only heavy furniture remained, though the walls were stained sun-bleached from where paintings and decorations had once hung.
It was in the dining room that he came across her.
A Coeian woman, pale, with long, dark hair, in an elegant green dress, now soaked red with blood, sprawled face-up across the tiled flood. Amalthus' eyes widened with shock as he rushed toward her, but there was very little to do. She had been shot twice in the chest, and once in the neck. She clutched at her neck as she drew in rattling, wheezing final breaths; her eyes pleaded with him, with what strength she could muster, she pointed upward. "B-baby," she croaked, her voice a barely audible rasp. She closed her eyes, as if this final effort had been enough to drain the last of the life from her body.
As if on cue, a baby began squalling somewhere upstairs.
Amalthus, unsure of what was happening, his mind not making the connection, quickly dashed up the winding staircase of the manor, still thinking that Rollo must be in danger somewhere. He followed the sound of the baby's crying, dashing through a long hallway lined with many doors to what once must have been magnificent rooms, now bare of most goods, until…
He threw open the door to the nursery, and dropped his rifle in shock.
In the room was a crib, and in the crib was a squalling, screaming baby, its face red with the force of its cries. And there, standing above the crib, holding a sword pointed an inch from the infant's chest, was Rollo, his face a dark storm, as if he was attempting to will himself to drive the sword point home.
"Rollo," Amalthus gasped. His mind raced. He found himself foolishly making excuses for why this was not, very obviously, what it actually was. Because when he admitted to himself what it was, his heart began to rip in two.
"Hello, Malthy," Rollo said, replied, is voice low, not turning around. "Surprise seeing you here."
"Rollo, did...did you..."
"Shoot that stupid bint downstairs? Yeah." Rollo still didn't lift his eyes from the crib, still didn't remove his blade from pointing at the baby's chest.
Amalthus' head reeled. A mother. A mother to an innocent child. Rollo had killed a mother to an innocent chid. How, how could it be, how could this man he loved be capable of such monstrous cruelty?
Like he did on that day so long ago, Amalthus felt a darkness rising in him, only now it was so much worse. But still, he fought it down. "Why?" he asked. He knew nothing Rollo could say was going to justify anything that was done here. But if he talked, he could delay the inevitable. He could delay what he already knew needed to be done.
"C'mon, Malthy. You heard the rumors in camp. Oh, command says it won't happen, but we both know Mor Ardain's gonna pull Coeia's bacon out of the fire." Rollo spoke still without raising his eyes or his blade from the squalling infant. "You agree with me, Coeia's a nation of rabid dogs. We need to put down as many of them as we can while we're still here. What would that bitch downstairs have done? Popped out more of these little bastards." His blade trembled as he spat out those words, wavering a hair's breadth from the infant's chest. "And what would they do? Grow up to be the sort of man who tortured my uncle. Who killed your mum." He struggled over those words, rage working its way across his face. "I know it's fucked up. I know this is just a pup. But he's got the sickness, the rabies in him. It sucks, but the best thing we can do is put them down before they get big enough to hurt people."
Oh, Architect, why, Amalthus thought. He felt detached from his body. He didn't even know he was drawing his sword, until he heard the hiss of it sliding from its sheath. Part of him hurt like he didn't even know was possible. Even when he had lost his mother, he hadn't hurt, not like this. His mother had died with good and light in her heart, despite the horror of her end. This, seeing Rollo, the only person he had loved since he had lost her, reveal himself as a monster, it crushed something in him. Some part of him died forever.
And yet even while he felt this pain, the part of him in control of his body felt cold, dead, numb, devoid of all emotion. "What you've done can't be forgiven," he heard himself say to Rollo, as if from a great distance.
Rollo finally looked up, his eyes widening in surprise at the sword in Amalthus' hands. "Hey," he said, and then seeing Amalthus' face, his eyes widened in terror. "Y-your eyes," he gasped. "Wait."
"I loved you," Amalthus said sadly.
Rollo screamed as Amalthus rushed forward, and his eyes became the world.
The cold, distant detachment left Amalthus, as his friend's corpse toppled before him, but the pain he felt was a pain beyond grief, beyond weeping, beyond hysterics. It was a deep, broken hurt so dark that Amalthus did not even know how to name it. It made the world seem dim, like a prison, like reality itself was a thin veil over an endless void of nothing. The world seemed paper thin, like nothing he did was really real at all. He found it difficult to breathe; his bloody sword clattered on the ground as he clutched at his throat, drawing ragged, gasping breaths.
"I can't do this, I can't take it," he whispered. He looked at the rifle, where he had dropped itby the door. That would be quick, painless, a way out of this horrific, nightmare prison that was life.
But...the dim squalling of the baby bought him back to reality, for a moment. Made the world seem a bit more real. He gathered the baby into his arms, swaddling it in a blanket. For a moment, he felt absurdly like it might shatter in his hands like glass, like the world was just waiting to saddle him with more nightmarish guilt and sorrow.
But no, the baby still wailed, but remained intact, as he walked down the stairs, out of the house, hushing at it, rocking it, trying to quiet it.
But why? Why? What for? Even as the baby did quiet, in response to his gentle rockings, he wandered around the manor's yard in a total fog. Another child, another child growing up without a mother, another child in this pointless nightmare of a world. Why was Amalthus saving him? Wouldn't it be better for the child to be spared the pain of this sick, sad nothingness, empty, empty, empty, hollow, hollow…
With a start, Amalthus realized he was teetering on the edge of the cliff in the manor's yard, having walked past the trees; staring down at a sheer drop of hundreds of feet beside the waterfall, down into spiky, jagged rocks below.
Yes. Just staring into those rocks, something felt so...right. So inviting, so comforting. A way out of the pain, a way to spare this poor child the horror of living and to end his own horror right now. Amalthus clutched the baby in his arms, wavering on the edge of the cliff, teetering, leaning forward, forward….
"Amalthus? You've been gone for hours, what are you doing there?"
Amalthus settled on his feet, nearly having been over the point of toppling over the edge. He looked back, behind him.
Minoth stood there, his eyes wide with fear and shock. "Is...that a baby? What's going on? What are you doing?"
"Minoth," Amalthus murmured, and Minoth almost shouted in terror at the mad, dark despair pouring from Amalthus' eyes, "I really do think this world must be hell."
"Amalthus," Minoth said, cautiously, approaching slowly, avoiding making any sudden movements. "Give me the baby. Give me the child."
Amalthus paused for a moment, then seemed to realize what he had almost done. His eyes widened, and he gently passed the infant to Minoth, who quickly withdrew, backwards, far from Amalthus, who watched this reaction with confusion.
"Minoth..." Amalthus said, reaching out towards his blade. His blade. His one final connection he had. "I need help. I can't see the light anymore."
"I'm leaving," Minoth replied.
"What…?"
"I said, I'm leaving," Minoth snapped, and then he sighed. "Amalthus, I've...tried talking with you for months. A year, now. I've tried….I don't know. There's a darkness in you, Amalthus. A darkness I can't do anything to stop. I'm your blade, I know better than anyone what lies within your heart. And now I find you, about to kill a child? A child, a baby, Amalthus? I can't live with this. Whenever we form a bond, more and more, it's like I can feel your sickness polluting me, and it's just….not who I want to be. I don't want to spend my life fighting against your toxin. And luckily, since I'm a Flesh Eater, I have a choice." His tone softened, as Amalthus' hands fell limply by his sides. "I'm sorry. I wish I could help you. I really do, but I can't, and I can't let you drag me down with you."
Amalthus stared at his blade for a long, long time. Inside, part of him howled in rage, madness, and pain, but more and more, the voice grew dimmer. It became buried beneath a thick shell of numbness. He had been wrong about the world, Amalthus realized. That was all.
The reality of the world was, you were alone forever.
"Amalthus?" Minoth asked, cautiously.
Amalthus carefully schooled his voice to stillness. "I won't pretend I'm not saddened by this, but I understand," he said simply. "You may go, I won't stop you. Maybe we will meet again in happier times."
Minoth peered suspiciously at his erstwhile driver. He had expected rage, an outburst, deep sadness, something other than this polite coldness. He opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head. "I...goodbye, Amalthus," was all he said, in the end.
Amalthus watched him go, taking the child with him. Then he stepped back from the cliff, collapsed in the grass, and held his head in his hands. A wave of despair passed through him, so thick and black it felt like it turned the very blood in his veins to poison, but he buried it beneath the growing walls of ice within him. The comforting, hollow numbness they offered.
He looked up towards the sky, the setting sun, the buzz of cicadas ringing in his ears. Why, he wondered, was the world like this?
And there, off in the far distance, towering on the edge of the horizon, was the green, glowing specter of the world tree, framed against the setting sun. The home of the Architect. Elysium.
And as he looked, Amalthus felt the light in him return. Except now, it was not a simple light, but a column, a pillar of roaring white fame that filled the hollow part of him. Why was the world the way it was? Why did the Architect make it this way? Why? Why?
As that white flame filled him, the cold rage, the fury, the indignation of the world mounted within him as well, until he felt a determination so complete, so utter, that he knew with a mad certainty that he was going to do what had never been done before.
The Architect needed to give answers. Amalthus did not care what it took, he was going to get them. Because he knew, he knew, in every corner of his soul, every part of him knew.
It didn't have to be like this.
11.
Amalthus awoke with a shout, the adrenaline of the last moment of his dream surging through him, sitting bolt upright in his bed. He was confused for a moment, until he realized that he must have drifted off to sleep in the midst of his reverie. Someone...perhaps one of his bodyguards? Must have moved him to his bed. This, Amalthus found quite surprising. It had certainly never happened before. Then again, he had never drifted off to fitful sleep in an armchair before. Still...it was surprising. He never would have thought his guards would have had the nerve to approach him in his sleep, much less move him.
He held a hand to his head, clearing both the fog of sleep and the hazy fog of roiling emotion from his brain. These memories, as he had relived them, were of a time when he thought about things with much less clarity. Long years of mental discipline had focused his mind, cutting through the fog, but in his youth he had lacked this, and only in reliving it now did he realize how terrifying it was that he had once lived like that.
The ship rocked gently beneath him, what Amalthus recognized as a sign that they were docking. He swiftly rose from his bed, feeling his joints pop, and retrieved a fresh pair of his formal robes from his closet. Slipping them on, he glanced out the window.
They were already in Uraya. This was a bit of a surprise to him, too. He hadn't thought he had slept for that long. But here they were, in the large indoor cavern that housed Fonsa Myma, lit dimly by the otherworldly glow of bioluminescent fungi climbing the walls, the docks already crowding with the dirty, impoverished Urayan citizenry, their country and economy devastated by the recent war, crowding around the ship.
A timid knocking came, rapping at his door. "Praetor? Are you awake?" came a muffled voice, calling from the other side. "I apologize if I am interrupting, but we have arrived in Fonsa Myma. Would you still like to make your appearance?"
"I'm awake," Amalthus called, still staring out the window at the massive crowds lining the docks, struggling to get closer to the docking Indol ship. "I do. I will be with you in a moment." He listened as the sound of footsteps retreated from the doorway, then held a hand to his head, troubled still by the memories plaguing him. But he wiped the worry from his mind, and schooled his expression to his normal polite, calm stoicism. He had a job to do.
Moments later, he appeared on the deck of his ship, surrounded by his coterie. Aralrae appeared from one of the doorways of the ship to stand by his side; at least now more modestly dressed, thank the Architect. A small cheer went up as he appeared, smiling benevolently, but the real cheers began when the doors were thrown open to the hold of the ship, revealing stockpiles of food, medical supplies, even building supplies, along with a legion of Indoline diplomats and military engineers, dressed not for war, wearing no armor, but smiling and waving as they began passing out food, doing their best to keep the distribution in an orderly fashion.
The crowd cheered, some wept with relief, others beamed grateful smiles at the Indoline; cries rose from the crowd: "Thank you, Praetor!" and "Thank you, Indol!"
"There is no need for thanks!" Amalthus intoned, his voice carrying clear across the docks. "It is simple humanity that drives Indol to offer aid to Uraya in her time of desperation. We could do no less."
But still, emotions ran high, and even the normally stoic Indoline seemed to be affected. This simple act of charity between nations filled their hearts with an overwhelming spirit of brotherhood, and the Indoline's stoic, polite smiles slowly grew to happy grins as the Urayans thanked them profusely, some shaking their hands, some hugging, laughing children crowding around their feet as they passed out sweets, until even the Indoline, that race which, with few exceptions, prided themselves on their silence and restraint, found their hearts singing with cheer, and some even wept tears of happiness that they, embarrassed, quickly tried to wipe from their faces.
And on the deck of the ship, Aralrae stared out across the scene in awe, then looked up at Amalthus, her eyes shining admiration. "They love you, Praetor," she said simply.
"Yes," Amalthus replied, his judging, weighing gaze staring out across the crowd. "They do."
Note
Hello, sorry for the long wait between chapters again: I am still writing this, but I have been particularly busy lately, and struggling to find time. I know this chapter and the last have focused on both Torna and now Amalthus, but the next chapter (though I can't promise when it will go up) will be back to focusing on the regular crew.
As always, please comment if you read this, and thank you for reading.