3
Rain drummed against my mask. It dripped from my horns, pooled in the curvature of my eye sockets, and overflowed in rivulets down my cheeks. The sodden cloak upon my back dragged across the cobblestones, creating wakes in the puddles like a boat on the open sea.
I was cold—colder than I'd ever been. I shivered, but did not voice my discomfort. I could not.
The rain-slicked streets of The City stretched out before, equal parts ornamented causeways and obscure alleys. The City was a place of angular buildings and tall spires, where chitin and metal composed everything: the doors, the sign posts, the walls, the inhabitants. A liquid sheen coated the rooftops, giving them a glint like polished onyx. There were no clouds in the gray expanse overhead, for it was not a sky but the roof of the vast cavern in which The City nestled.
Among the towers in The City's center, one loomed above all the others, surrounded by scaffolding and the flying specks of worker bugs. This tower reached to the very ceiling of the cavern, which was crisscrossed with fractures like a frozen lake. Water streaked the tower's windows and flying buttresses as a second, undulating skin.
"Lurien's Spire," a voice over my shoulder said.
I turned to look, and Ogrim was staring at me. Again.
"That imposing stick in the distance belongs to Lurien, one of the King's most trusted advisers. Have you met him before, little one?"
I halted my march to meet Ogrim's gaze, but I did not reply. He paused beside me and waited in silence, patient as stone.
Isma, also paused, bringing our convoy of three to a complete stop. She planted a claw on her hip. "Despite your brave attempts at conversation, the Vessel will not take part. It was not made for such things."
"But I wager it understands me, yes?" Ogrim asked. "Everyone enjoys a chat now and again."
"It cannot speak, Ogrim."
"Are you certain?"
"Quite certain," Isma said.
"Because this little one's reservation reminds me of an old stag beetle I once met long before I stumbled upon this Kingdom. Not a word did that stag utter, no matter how I prattled at him. And for the longest time, I believed his kind to be mute or perhaps simple. I felt quite the fool for trying to spark a discussion with an aimless bug of burden. But, it wasn't until we parted ways that the stag offered me a farewell. 'Long life to you', it said before trundling off down a tunnel. Consider that this little one may have simply not found a subject worth speaking on yet."
The slightest hint of strain worked its way into Isma's voice. "That is a whimsical idea but believe me when I say that it is very much impossible. Vessels have never needed to speak. And so, they never will, so was the King's verdict. Now, come along. The mustering grounds are a long walk, and this rain will not abate any time soon."
Ogrim murmured a half-reply and following Isma down the street.
The compulsion that the King had laid upon me—to follow and obey Ogrim—pressed against my limbs and sent me trotting over to the Knight's side. I did not resist the pull, for I had no other wish.
The relentless downpour seemed to affect Ogrim little. He trudged through it without complaint, the droplets plinking noisily against his armor and generating a sort of song that echoed down the tangent alleyways. His short, stocky legs crashed through the puddles and launched sheets of water into the air.
By comparison, Isma maintained a far more erratic step. She hopped from one haven of dryness to another, avoiding the puddles like pitfalls. In her claws, she grasped the stem of an enormous heart-shaped leaf that hung over her head to block the rain. Streams descended from its edges and trailed behind her. Another such leaf was wrapped up and lashed to her hip. After a time, she took it out and proffered it to Ogrim.
"Would you care for a leaf as well?" Isma asked. "You look uncomfortable."
Ogrim laughed and stared up at The City's ceiling. "If rain could fell me, then I wouldn't be much of a Knight, would I?"
"But are you not cold?"
"I have walked colder roads than this. Places where endless ash falls from the sky like snow."
"But you might rust." Isma persisted. "Have you considered such a thing?"
"Perhaps I'd look good in red," Ogrim countered.
"It would reflect poorly on our King if his Great Knights strutted about resembling the Nailsmith's scrapyard."
Ogrim faltered, one foot in a puddle. "That is true. But even so, it is not proper for a Great Knight to be seen cowering beneath a leaf, especially from something so meager as rain."
Isma chuckled. "Am I not a Great Knight myself? Do I seem to be cowering beneath this leaf?"
Ogrim whipped his head from side to side, scattering droplets. "No, certainly not. That was not my meaning! You would never cower, from rain or otherwise."
"It is good that we've come to a consensus," Isma said as she held out the leaf once again. "Here."
After a moment of deliberation and surreptitious glances, Ogrim accepted the leaf, holding it awkwardly between his two claws. With a flick, it sprung into a favorable shape, and he lifted it tentatively over his head. The plinking of raindrops against armor ceased, and a relative quiet ensued.
"My thanks, Great Knight Isma," he mumbled.
"Think nothing of it. And formality is not needed here. 'Isma' is fine."
"Fair enough."
Our path took us through a residential area of The City, where modest houses lined the streets. They were small and squarish, each sporting only a single window. No light filtered through their panes, and the constant murmur of habitation was nowhere to be heard. Forgotten possessions littered the porches: dolls of woven vines, mementos of crystal, and heavy furniture. Metal planks sealed the doors of most of the houses, with signs hung from them depicting dead bugs lying on their backs. There was no foot traffic; nothing stirred. The Lumafly lanterns standing on the street corners were as dark as dead suns, their Lumaflies pooling at the base of their bulbs.
"Day by day, our great city becomes its own mausoleum," Isma said. "Do you recall when these houses bustled with life, and the streets were filled with young bugs playing at being Knights? It was not so long ago…"
"Sadly, that was before my time." Ogrim said. "But I would have liked to see it."
Isma halted beside a house surrounded by City guards. They milled about in their dull gray armor, speaking little. Upon noticing Isma, the guards snapped to attention and offered stiff bows. Several more of them emerged out of the house, bearing a litter over their heads. An emaciated bug was sprawled upon it, motionless and barely breathing. The rain struck it full in the face, yet it did not even flinch. A nebulous, orange glow pressed out from behind its glassy, unseeing eyes.
The nearest guard began to offer Isma a report, his tone low and deferential, but Isma merely lifted a claw and brought him to silence. "There is no need to inform us, guard. This event is not unfamiliar to me. Carry on."
We continued down the street without another word. The echo of a hammer chased our departure, as another house was forever sealed.
"And I will see it, won't I?" Ogrim asked, long after the hammering had faded away.
"Hmm?"
"What this city had once been."
Isma let out a fragile laugh. "You are aware that only the King peers into the future, yes? I am not so blessed. No matter how dearly I might wish to, I cannot know what will come to pass." She rolled the stem of her leaf, sending the droplets spinning out into the dark.
"Then perhaps He would tell me?"
"If you posed that question to the King, then He would offer you no promises, no guarantees of the future. That is not His way. He requires that we subsist on faith alone." Her grip tightened on the stem. "But in truth… the King's words often ring hollow, and his prescience seems a poor parlor trick."
"You speak of Ze'mer?" Ogrim asked.
Isma nodded. Her words were choked. "Ze'mer's doom was not His first oversight. Nor will it be His last."
"Doom?" Ogrim trotted up to walk side-by-side with Isma. "But Ze'mer is not dead! If you desire, then we can petition the King and set out to pursue her. We can learn of her reason for deserting. If it is a righteous one, then the King may yet pardon her."
"There are many kinds of death, Ogrim. Though Ze'mer did not perish on that battlefield, her heart surely did. Life without a purpose is no life at all. The Great Knight that we knew is lost to us. We will not see her again in this world."
Ogrim tilted his head. "How are you sure of that? I have no skill for these riddles. What do you mean?"
"Please, no more questions, I cannot bring myself to speak of this anymore. Like so many other matters, it is not within our power to change. Let it be."
"Do not be so quick to surrender! Are you unwilling to so much as look for her? We can—"
"Please."
A hot breath rattled through Ogrim's body. "As you wish," he said, before falling back several steps to trail in Isma's shadow.
We passed through tiled plazas, artificial parks, and abandoned bathhouses. Few parts of The City seemed equipped to combat the rain, and we spied wrought-iron benches and intricate fountains submerged in deep-standing pools. The few gutters we encountered gulped at the dirty, brown water but there was always another swell to replace the last.
Isma guided us along a winding route to avoid most of the flooding, but even so, I often waded up to my chest in frigid water. My cloak plastered to my body, slowing my movements and weighing me down. The tall Knights marched on, dauntless, and I struggled to keep pace.
Eventually, Ogrim took notice as I lagged behind, and he broke the oppressive quiet that had ensorcelled us. "Do you have another leaf, Isma?" he asked.
"I do not," she replied, distant and dream-like. "Why?"
He looked at me over his shoulder. "This little one might also like a respite from the rain."
The melancholy died in Isma's voice, replaced by something flat and sharp. "It does not. I can assure you."
"Why do you say that?"
"Vessels cannot desire anything."
Ogrim shrugged. "But this little one seems no different from you or I. Surely it wishes for something, all beings do."
We came to a halt before a stretch of shops. Accessories, books, flowers, and baubles sat in the windowsills behind cages of glass. Unlike so much of what we'd seen, this area was populated, even to the point of being crowded. Plain, round-shouldered bugs scuttled in and out of the rain, Geo jingling in their claws. Upon taking notice of us, the bugs whispered to one another and gestured in our direction. Many halted mid-step to stare.
Isma drew Ogrim by the arm, out of the rain and into an arched passageway that ran through a tall building. "The King requested that I enlighten you to certain things," she said, just barely audible. "I feel that now would be the best time. So, please listen to my words." She paused to collect herself. "Ogrim, you have been a Great Knight for just a short while. There are many things with which you are unfamiliar. I began my service in the King's court much like you. When I spied my first Vessel, it seemed to be a bug like any other: a child, with a quiet, fathomless stare. But in time, the King revealed its true nature. I learned that it was no bug, that it could not feel, or desire, or dream." She leaned closer. "I condole your sentiments about this Vessel, but you must recognize that there are no secret thoughts hidden behind that mask. The Vessel is empty, as it was created to be. There are many like it, and all are the same. Over my years, dozens—hundreds—have paraded through the halls of the White Palace, and inevitably they broke or were broken, like brittle pottery in careless claws." She turned away. "Do not become attached to such a thing. It is unwise of you to think of them as anything other than tools."
Ogrim said nothing for several seconds. "I understand."
Isma gave a weary nod. "Good."
And we resumed our walk.
We passed beneath a portion of the cavern's ceiling through which ran a particularly deep crack. Rain gushed down like blood from an open wound. It pounded upon my head and bowed my shoulders, making every step an onerous task. Water eddied and swirled about my shuffling feet, threatening to trip me. But suddenly, the rain ceased. The pattering continued all around me, but it no longer pelted my mask. I looked up to behold the green barrier of a leaf hanging over me, and the song of rain upon armor resumed.
"There. Is that better?" Ogrim asked me, as he held out his umbrella and a torrent of water fell over him. "I do not know much about Vessels, but even you must be growing weary of the rain. We can't have you drowning on your feet, now can we?" His laugh was like flight, spiraling ever upward.
I did not voice any thanks, for I had none to give.
Ogrim continued to hold the leaf over my head as we crossed a series of bridges suspended on black metal chains. Hastily-constructed drainage ditches surged beneath us like raging rivers.
"No, Ogrim. No, you don't," Isma muttered.
"Pardon?"
"You do not understand. You have not heeded me at all."
Ogrim teetered from foot to foot as he walked. "I am sorry," he said. "But in earnest, Isma, you have never spoken this way before. For a moment, I thought that I heard the King's voice in chorus with your own. It… unsettles me. Is it not you who so frequently chides me for oafishly stepping on stray flowers or scurrying Shrumelings? Is that grove of yours not a precious gem in your heart? Those ferns and vines do not hope or dream or feel, yet you treat them with the same bursting kindness that you offer the subjects of this kingdom. I do not understand why this child—"
"Vessel," Isma interrupted.
"I do not understand why this Vessel deserves less!"
Isma stopped on the outskirts of The City, where the cobblestones gave way to the smooth, unbroken cavern floor. In the distance, on a slight incline, was a collection of tents—the mustering grounds. The sound of clashing nails carried through the rain.
"Living things are precious," Isma whispered. "All living things. And it is our duty as Knights to protect them…" She turned to look at me—directly at me—for the first time. "But this automaton that the King has wrought is no living thing. It houses no beating heart, no Soul of its own. It cannot care about itself or anything else. It is like Monomon's machines: cold and numb."
Ogrim took a step between Isma and I, as if to make a shield of himself against her words. "For as long as I have known you, Isma, I believed you to be incapable of hate. Was that just a fool's conceit?"
Isma flinched. "Call it hate if that so pleases you! But the King has given us a charge, and you will follow me." She tore away from us and ascended the incline toward the mustering grounds. "If you refuse to hear the truth, then I must show it to you."
The mustering grounds were a collection of huts and lean-to shelters centered around a huge, sandy pit. Contingents of bugs hid from the rain beneath silken tarps, chattering quietly among themselves. Within the pit several sparring matches were taking place, the source of the constant, metallic ringing in the air. The occupants fought with blunted nails, accompanied by battle cries and grunts. They were a motley assortment, in all sizes, shapes, and levels of skill. Most were frail-limbed and thin-shelled, and some were even shorter than I. Their equipment varied from freshly-forged to old and rusted.
But as we three came into view, activity shuddered to a halt. Even the combatants stopped mid-strike to wheel about and gawk at the sudden appearance of Great Knights.
Isma leaned forward as she walked, as if braving a powerful wind. "The King commanded us to teach this Vessel about battle. But this is not the first Vessel that I have trained, nor the tenth." She stopped beside a rack of assorted nails, in varying sizes and shapes. Her claw drifted over the pommels before grasping the very smallest one and lifting it into the rain. The thing looked like a toy. She tossed the nail at my feet, and it embedded half its length into the stone. "Tell it to take the nail, Ogrim. It will obey you."
Ogrim cleared his throat and glanced about. "I understand that the King advised us to make haste, but perhaps it is a bit early for this one to be using a non-blunted nail?" He leaned down to me. "Have you wielded a weapon before, little one?"
Isma strode over to the sparring pit and asked its current occupants to vacate. Her voice was soft, but left no room for argument. The bugs bowed and scuttled up the embankment to rest themselves on the edge. A crowd began to form and encircle the pit. Isma paid them no mind. She cast the leaf umbrella aside and leapt nimbly into the pit's center, where she remained perfectly still.
Ogrim's breathing was heavy. He crouched to plant a claw on my shoulder, and searched my eyes for a sign that was not there. "You must tell me if you are not prepared to face this challenge. Isma is not jesting, she means to test you in a far harsher way than I had hoped. Speak up, I cannot help you if you do not."
But I had no reply to give.
Ogrim released me and rose like an iron tower. "Very well. Take the nail, little one. Meet Isma in the sparring pit and… prepare yourself."
I obeyed without hesitation and extracted the cold hilt from the stone. The tip of the nail carved a thin scratch in the cavern floor behind me as I approached the pit. I slid down the embankment on unsteady feet. The bugs in the crowd, who were now so numerous that they threatened to spill over the pit's edges, spoke to one another, first in murmurs and then in bemused shouts.
"...A rather short one..."
"...Yes, a poor challenge..."
"…Look at that measly nail! Not even fit to cut a bug's meal."
"...What farce is this?!..."
Ogrim followed up to the edge of the pit. "Did you train the other Vessels in this manner?" he yelled. The din of the crowd had grown so great that his voice barely carried.
"I have never had an audience, if that is what you are asking," Isma shouted back. She drew a pouch from beneath the folds of her leaf-skirt and emptied it into the palm of her claw. Seeds tumbled out, a dozen of them, diamond-shaped and violently red. "With the first few Vessels I was cautious. Kind. They were small and seemed so unsuited for battle, I was loath to let them hold so much as a training nail. Yet, the King was adamant that I test their limits, and so, I did."
The rain drenched Isma's body and flowed down the veins of her leafy garb. The seeds rested in her cupped claw, inert and lifeless. She held them close to her mask as if to inspect them. And as she did this, something stirred about her, like the rippling heat of a great furnace.
I felt it. A vast, inviolable energy writhed and swirled throughout the pit, invisible but undeniably salient. It expanded and receded in fantastical patterns before coalescing within Isma's seeds. They trembled with the infused energy, so much so that they threatened to vibrate off her palm. She cast them into the sand as if they had burned her. The seeds disappeared beneath the coarse grains like pebbles in a pond.
"Command it to attack me, Ogrim," Isma shouted. "You need only say one word."
The crowd settled, and the pressure of their voices diminished to an ambient hiss.
"Please, just wait." Ogrim said. "I've never seen you bring twelve seeds to bear before, it is too dangerous! You could kill the little one with this sort of power!"
"Command it to attack me, Ogrim!" Isma repeated, louder. She settled into a defensive stance, arms held out to either side. "You cannot kill something that has never lived."
"No more semantics, I beg! We should simply—"
"Command it!" Isma roared, all melody stripped from her voice.
Only the rain disturbed the sudden hush.
Time stretched. Ogrim stood impossibly still, but then a single, choked word escaped him. "Attack."
Like some combustion, a new purpose hurled my body into motion. Isma was to be destroyed. It was the only thing in all the world that mattered, and I did not question.
I charged, and the crowd took up a cacophonous bellowing. More jeers and mockery were leveled at me, but the words meant nothing. Isma made no move as I gained speed and the distance between us diminished. As if by its own accord, my cloak melted into a liquid-black shadow and trailed like torn ribbons in my wake. I dashed, impossible fast, and before the crowd could even process, the sandy expanse that separated Isma and me vanished. I was suddenly standing an arm length away. Without pause, I struck.
Yet, Isma had expected this. She danced out of the range of my nail—narrowly avoiding the killing slash that I had leveled at her neck—and swung her arm through the empty air, as if to slap at some phantom adversary. Everything began to rumble. In an explosion of wet sand and rubble, twelve scarlet vines emerged from the earth and lashed out at me. I attempted to evade, but one tendril connected with my back and sent me tumbling over the sand like a skipped stone. I smashed into the embankment on the far side of the pit. Loose-packed rock caved behind me, and a crack ran the length of my mask.
"This is meant to be but a sparring match!" Ogrim yelled.
The crowd grew deathly silent.
Isma once again adopted that defensive stance. "No, this is a battle! And so long as either of us can still move, then it will continue! This is the test that the King desires!" She risked a glance in Ogrim's direction. "Of all my lessons, you could never grasp the most fundamental: never underestimate your foes!"
Pebbles and sand cascaded over my blemished mask. My body ached and the world spun like a falling leaf. But the command remained unfulfilled, burning on inside of me. My nail had yet to bury itself in Isma's chest. I could not stop.
The crowd murmured as I tottered upright.
Now, a wall of squirming, scarlet vines separated me from my goal. They were easily five times my size and wove in and out of one another like long grass caught in conflicting winds. Thorns covered them from tip to base and flashed in the wet world like sharpened metal. But I strode toward them all the same.
Isma did not wait for me to fully recover. Through a gap in the wall I spied her jab an arm in my direction, and the vines sprang like an extension of her body. They coiled, stretched, and whipped at me in one twisted mass. But just as they slammed into the sand, I once again darted forward, and the ebony substance of my cloak encompassed me. For an instant, I became intangible, and phased through the attacks like a beam of light through a pane of glass. I skidded to a halt on the opposite side of the vines, unharmed. With Isma right before me.
This time she seemed surprised as my nail stung through her silk-thin shell and bit at the vitals inside. I tasted a sweetness; an invigorating power. But as I drove my nail home, she wrenched her body to the left, preventing a deathblow. The nail's tip screeched across her chest and shoulder. The sweet taste vanished as we stumbled apart. Before I could regain my balance, she waved her arm in my direction and the vines crashed down, cratering me into the sand.
"Your point is made, Isma!" I heard Ogrim shout from far away. "That wound is serious! Stop, we must staunch the bleeding!"
"Stand up, Vessel!" Isma screamed. "If you cannot best me then you will never fulfill your purpose! Stand up!"
I surged to my feet, not for Isma's words, but because the drive to kill her would not relinquish me. It consumed my every fiber.
The vines descended again for another attack, and as I struggled to evade them, I struck out with my nail. One vine severed cleanly and toppled to the sand. It convulsed before withering into ash, but eleven more still remained. They bludgeoned and tossed me about, like a raft on river rapids.
I dodged from side to side, but glancing vine blows shredded my cloak and added fresh scars to my mask. Wildly, I slashed, even though every swing felt as though my arm might tear away.
The fight wore on, and opaque bubbles leached from my body into the quivering rain. One after another, the vines fell, weakening Isma's living phalanx.
A strange feeling accompanied every successful cut of my nail. Milky light siphoned from the dying plant life and into me. The sweet, invigorating taste returned, and I redoubled my efforts, for a hunger had awoken in me. It ached even more than my failing body, and each vine that I hewed offered the slightest satiation.
Isma retreated several steps and pressed an arm against the hideous gash in her chest. She hunched low heaving for breath, but her other arm continued to wave, guiding the remaining vines.
A horizontal slice of my nail opened a path for me, and I took it, dashing forward as I had before. The vines swiped at my passage, attempting to restrain me, but they grasped only shadow. I had escaped their range and now nothing separated me from my purpose. Isma ceased her waving. The tension left her body. The vines behind me curled up and grew dormant. I needed only to land a single blow, and the fire that compelled me would be snuffed.
The space between us evaporated, and with all the strength left to me, I thrust the nail at her throat. But there was no screech of metal against shell, no splattering crunch, just the whistle of compressed air. Isma flowed around the nail like a stream of water. She shrugged to the side and the killing point went wide. With one arm still pressed against her own chest, Isma snatched me by the wrist, extended a foot to trip my own, and flipped me bodily onto the sand. The world inverted and I found myself staring into the cavern's fractured ceiling.
With no nail in my grip.
I leapt back up. Isma's maneuver had done no harm, but as I wheeled around to face her, the very nail that I had just wielded shot out to slash me across the mask, from right temple to left cheek. Something black and viscous dripped from the wound. I stumbled back and reoriented. Isma held the nail in one claw and pointed it at my eye socket.
"The King was not mistaken," she rasped. "You are stronger. Faster. Than any have ever been." She swallowed something seeping up the back of her throat, and her voice fell to a whisper that only I could hear. "You are every bit the killing machine that the King has longed for. But I am forced to question what sort of salvation such a murderous instrument could offer. My heart tells me that I should end you. Here. Before you drag the King even deeper into his madness. Before your Void devours us all."
My weapon was gone… I had been ordered to destroy this bug, and even though I now lacked the means, the urge did not dissipate. I glanced around as Isma spoke. Nothing but sand and rock greeted me.
And yet.
Deep inside, a power churned. Not my own, but something borrowed. The sweetness that I had felt when my nail connected with Isma's shell now billowed inside me like a sail. It knotted and bulged, seeking an exit from the cage of my body.
Isma took a deep, rattling breath. She tightened her grip on the nail and inched forward. The crowd grumbled like an enormous beast.
"…Is it done, then?…"
"…They're still fighting…"
"…Have any of you ever seen a Great Knight bleed before?…"
"…She's readying the nail! It's an execution!…"
The power centered itself within my chest. It pressed from the inside out, threatening to crack me open and spill forth in a torrent, and I did not hold it back.
"I am sorry," Isma whispered. "If that means anything." She lifted the nail and stepped forward, aiming another slash at my mask, but this time charged with lethal intent.
The crowd howled condemnations and approval in equal measure. Swept up within that discord was Ogrim. He slid down the pit's embankment and rushed across the sand, but he was far too slow.
Soul erupted from my chest; concentrated life force that I had stolen from Isma one blow at a time. It moved like a comet, luminous-white and unstoppably powerful. With a concussive blast that forced the crowd into silence, the Soul slammed into Isma, tearing the nail from her claw, hurling her to the ground, and cracking her shell.
I pounced straight for the discarded nail, snatching it by the sand-peppered hilt. In the slick reflection of the blade, I beheld my own mask. It was a ruin of slashes, fractures, and that puzzling black blood. Despite the quake in my legs and the failing substance of my body, I stumbled toward Isma. She lay prone, seeming to drift in and out of consciousness, at one point bracing her arm against the sand in a futile attempt to rise.
My purpose screamed at me. She had to die. Three uncertain steps separated us, and then I would drive the nail into her heart. There was no other possibility.
The crowd shrieked. Armored bugs stormed down the embankment. The pounding in my head did not relent, and I found myself gazing down upon Isma's face.
The nail rose.
And a roar cut the bedlam.
"STOP!"
