Resurgent Shadows (Successive Harmony Book 1) (11 page)

Maybe Natalie was right. He
was
an idiot.

He turned to look at Olan and Torsten as if nothing had just transpired. “So what’s the plan, your Majesty?” he asked.

There was a moment of tense silence, then suddenly the room was filled with riotous laughter. One of the dvergers slapped Eric on the back with rough, brutish strength, though he knew it was meant on a jovial note even as he winced. The first dverger Eric had struck was ribbed as the butt of several jokes from the other clan chiefs as he made his way back to the table after retrieving his dented helm.

“Well done, human,” Olan said with a wink.

Eric flashed the dverger king a faint smile. He took the few minutes it took for the dvergers to calm down and return to their previous discussion to study the maps on the table. Several dozen dverger miniatures were placed on the map within the borders of Old Provo. A half dozen dragon figurines rested on the map far to the southeast, near what had once been Grand Junction, Colorado. It was a long distance to cover out in the open, exposed to the patrols that passed overhead and traversed that land around them—a distance that Eric would have normally called an impossible journey. But the goal of the army was to kill dragons and the hosts that followed them. Eric doubted they’d have any trouble finding the beasts.

“The plan be simple,” Olan said once all the clan chiefs were seated. The dverger with the dented helm slouched moodily in a seat across from him, the faint line of blood that dripped from his nose only heightening the intensity of the murderous glare he shot towards Eric. The other two dvergers Eric had fought sat on either side of him, though they didn’t show any open hostility towards him. “The main army be here. According to our latest reports, the Brown Dragonhosts do be southwest of us. We intend to lure them out and be meeting them at the base of these canyons and passes to the northwest of where they be holed up.”

Olan pointed to a spot on the map that corresponded roughly with an area just north of Old Moab and the Arches National Park. Eric had been down that side of Bryce Canyon before and approved of the choice. With a sheer mountain range on one side and a maze of canyons on the other, it would be a simple matter to bottle them up and crush them against the immobile rock. Even if, in the worst case scenario, they were routed, they could fall back into the Canyonlands and lose them in the labyrinth of valleys and canyons for which the area was named. While Eric had never been one for the actual physical part of combat—at least, not before now—tactics and maneuver were one of his strong points.

“Gaeslingr and Fenrirbane will be taking the flanks to the north and south of the army as we march. Deepgarth will be leading and Norvigr will take up the rear,” Olan continued, nodding at each respective clan chief in turn.

Behind Eric, Torsten cleared his throat and pressed an elbow into Eric’s back. Eric made a small noise of protest from the pain, which, despite being quiet, immediately drew the attention of all the others in the room. Some gazed at him in interest, though most looked over with scorn and derision at the interruption.

“I think I should scout ahead with the clan,” Eric said into the silence, receiving an approving grunt from Torsten. “If you will have me. I know the area around these parts quite well.”

“Why would you be joining us, human?” one of the clan chiefs asked, his face a mask of hair that hid his expression. “What be in it for you? Why be leaving this place and your people?”

Eric didn’t need the nudge from Torsten to know that his answer would determine the fate of his people.

“I am a Guerreiro. Fighting the Dragonhosts is what I do.”

Again the words were unplanned and unfamiliar, but they seemed to placate the dverger, even if Eric inwardly groaned at the brashness of it all. He never would have made a move without planning it out in advance before, but his back was to a wall and he simply had no other choice. He hoped Natalie would forgive him.

For a moment, Eric thought he saw a trace of irritation flash across Olan’s face, but it passed in a moment. The dverger king turned to one of the clan chiefs near him and raised a thick bushy eyebrow. The clan chief looked a lot like the King, though with thick brown hair and beard touched with gray, rather than Olan’s auburn locks.

“What be your word, Diarf?”

Diarf glanced from Olan to Eric and then back again. Something seemed to pass between them and Diarf nodded.

“I do accept the Guerreiro and his squad as one of the scouting patrols.”

Olan nodded as well, which silenced the shouts of protests on the lips of the dverger opposite where Eric sat.

Behind him, Eric heard Torsten breathe a sigh of relief.

“It be decided then. We be leaving on the morrow.”

Screams tore upward from the breeding pits below, reverberating off the chamber walls and growing with each overlapping peal.

Remdin sniffed and sunk down into the shadows. Hidden in the murk near the monstrosity’s feet, the dverger shivered in his scant loincloth and hugged his knees to his chest. Huddled as he was, it was hard to make out the rusted chain which wound its way along the floor from his left ankle to wrap around one of the skull throne’s thick ivory horns.

Upon his dais, Granil grinned around his yellowed tusks. Wrapped in vibrant purple silks that barely hid his pustule-ridden flesh, Granil leaned back in his throne and sighed contentedly. Made from the hollowed out remains of a red dragon’s skull, the throne’s massive size made Granil’s own enormous girth appear almost normal in comparison—and that girth had grown considerably in the years of splendor that had greeted him in this world.

More screams joined the first before they died and Remdin shivered again. He buried his bare face into his knees and closed his eyes, picturing a better place, one filled with mead, hot venison, and wenches. The image never fully coalesced.

A gong rang from the entry hall, announcing someone’s approach. A dozen golgent ran into the room bearing a large wooden table that was proving too heavy for them. They nearly dropped it twice before they managed to set in place in front of Granil. He swiped at one of them lazily, but the golgent, only as large as Granil’s boulder-like hand, easily avoided the weak blow. It scampered away, large feet flapping against the stone.

Remdin lifted his head slightly to stare after the fleeing creature as he did every time they were about. They were so much smaller than the ones he had fought before. Pygmies even. One of them wouldn’t even come up to his waist. And the coloring was off too. Golgent were supposed to have green skin and yellow eyes. These had a pastel cast to their skin, as if a layer of white flesh lay beneath the green skin. And the eyes—they were almost orange.

He scowled and let his head drop.

This was not his world, yet there were similarities. The same creatures, the same familial alliances amongst the clans, and yet different somehow, in subtle, strange ways. It didn’t matter anymore. Olan was King. His family had been assimilated into the dverger army that Olan was building. He was now a king without a crown. A dverger without a clan. He had lost.

The pygmy golgent scampered back into the room. This time they carried platters of food balanced above their heads. The smells were nauseating and alluring at the same time. Remdin didn’t even have to look over at the table to feel his stomach turn. It grumbled, either in protest or hunger. He couldn’t tell which. Regardless, he had to eat. His body was growing weak from lack of nourishment.

Gritting his teeth, he lifted his head and shifted around so he could snatch at whatever morsels fell.

Above him, Granil seized a haunch of sizzling meat and tore off a massive chuck with his broken, crooked teeth. He sat up, making his throne groan in protest. Grease covered his hands and lips, mingling with blood and juices from the rare meat. In the dim light, the liquid shone with a reddish cast.

Remdin licked his desiccated lips and tried not to heave.

Granil continued feasting. Breads and cheeses disappeared down his gullet in single gulps. Strange jellied substances and thick glutinous chunks of brick-like proportions were consumed as well.

Remdin waited on balled feet, his weakened muscles tensed and ready to spring. A bone dropped from the table.

It seemed to fall in slow motion, tumbling through the air trailing juices. Remdin charged forward just as the shadows in the corner of the room opposite him seemed to bulge and expel a large red wyrm. Remdin noticed it only in his periphery. He was focused on the falling bone. He dove, snatching it from the air with a single outstretched hand and then tucked into a roll that left his shoulder bruised and carried him under the table at Granil’s feet.

The wyrm, its mouth agape and pronged tail poised, skittered after him.

Granil stood erect in all his slovenly glory, bathing his chest in the grease that dripped from his mouth and ran in rivulets down his pock-marked skin. He heaved the table over before the wyrm could pounce, spraying food across the floor. The wyrm scrambled backward and Granil sent a kick in its direction, but it darted around the overturned table and descended upon the scattered meal.

Remdin sat where he had landed, gnawing at the bone. Hunger drove him, and it was a more compelling master than fear.

Granil rounded on the dverger, reaching back to his skull throne and drawing out a massive sword. Remdin’s eyes followed the blade. That sword, as wide at the base as his skull, had killed him before. Killed him and returned him to life again. A sneer curled Granil’s lips, giving him a feral look around the tusks. Screams sounded from the breeding pits. Granil raised the sword high and took a step forward.

The gong sounded.

Granil lowered the blade and spat to the side—a long stream of reddish black liquid that stank almost as badly as the creature himself—as Lamaril stormed into the room.

Lamaril’s expression could have defied the storm clouds and spat in the face of thunder. His black cloak swirled around him like wings, the red fist on his left breast rippling with the movement. The man walked right up to Granil ignoring the broken furniture, the wyrm, and the sword.

“Mortan has shown his hand,” he said. “Athore is dead. My scryings found his body in the valley where he was supposed to meet with the Red’s envoy.”

Granil roared in anger, tilting his head back to bellow at the ceiling. The sword in his hands dropped towards the floor, but instead of striking it, passed straight through as if it weren’t there. Neither Remdin nor Lamaril paused to take note of it.

“Curse Mortan,” Granil grunted. “May Sayrin take him down to the black depths of hell.”

Lamaril remained standing, still as stone, as Granil kicked his way back to his throne and flopped down into its embrace. His flinty eyes were impassive, yet missed nothing.

Almost at his feet, Remdin gnawed at the bone, sucking every last drop of marrow from it that he could.

“So what is our response, my lord?” Lamaril asked, his voice flat.

Granil lounged back on his throne, one hand reflectively scratching at the pustules on his chin. Screams echoed up from the breeding pits, a chorus of pain and glory that crashed against itself in a chaotic jumble.

Granil’s eyes narrowed. “We let them come to us!” he said, his voice full of cruel pleasure.

“My lord?” Lamaril asked.

Granil turned his head to gaze at the human wizard, his eyes seeming to glow.

“We let them come to us, or rather, part of us. A dverger army is on their way here already. They can fight us and Mortan, if they are both lucky enough to survive. You will lead them.”

“I?”

“Yes, you,” Granil snapped. “I will lead part of our hosts north.”

Remdin looked up, the bone frozen in place halfway to his mouth.

“Is it wise to split our forces, my lord?” An arched eyebrow was the only indication of Lamaril’s dissent, but it was enough to make Granil cackle in delight.

“We outnumber Mortan, and the dvergers. We
far
outnumber them. Ready the Draugrsál. You can use them.”

“And you?”

Granil turned and grinned down at Remdin.

“I will be paying a visit to some old friends. The best way to kill someone is to stab them in the heart.”

The bone slipped from Remdin’s fingers and clattered to the floor.

Barbed wire glinted dully in the lantern light as Caleb leaned over and rested his elbows against the city-fortress wall. The cruel metal points menaced his flesh only a few inches from his face, but Caleb peered out into the space between them, searching among the broken, decaying buildings that surrounded the city-fortress for signs of movement. He knew it was unlikely. Any survivors that weren’t in the city-fortress were either marauders and unlikely to move against a city-fortress so large, or had long-since moved on. Charlotte’s cold dead corpse had been picked clean. Only the empty husk remained—an empty husk slowly filling with ash.

He shifted and looked northward. Even in the darkness and through the haze of soot, he could still make out the old I-77 highway, now shattered and skeletal, dotted with ash-covered bumps that hid abandoned, empty cars. It stood out against the horizon, like a rib sticking out from a skeleton’s frame.

He yawned and brushed ash from his sleeve, coughing slightly as he breathed in some of the ash.

“Anything to report?”

Caleb jumped and straightened in the same motion, a hand reaching for the gun that hung heavy on his hip. His heart raced, but stilled in the next moment when he recognized Kenneth’s domineering presence behind him. The large man wore full military fatigues, a Kevlar vest strapped over his thick chest. Various pieces of equipment hung from the vest or were secured in pockets along its length. An assault rifle hung over his shoulder, in such a way that it could be in his hands in an instant. As always, the man’s scarred face bore a scowl. At first Caleb had taken the look personally, but over time, he’d noticed that the sergeant gave the same look to all the refugees.

“Nothing to report, sir,” Caleb said hastily. He snapped into a sloppy salute.

Kenneth arched an eyebrow at him and the corner of his lip curled into a sneer.

“Get back to your post,” he ordered and stalked off, disappearing into the gloom without a backward glance, the rifle bouncing against his shoulder.

Caleb rolled his eyes and turned back to peer out into the gloom. Dropping a hand to the butt of his gun, he wondered, not for the first time, why only the officers or ex-military men had rifles. They had all been trained to handle the assault weapons, both the ARs and the M4s, but the only service weapon they’d been issued where the handguns.

And it wasn’t as if one was readily interchangeable with the other. A rifle was a weapon infused with finesse and skill. It was a ranged weapon that kept the enemy far from you when firing.

A handgun was a grunt’s weapon. Close quarters. Inaccurate at long distances. Meant for those who would get their hands dirty and who may find themselves grappling with an enemy in the dirt. At least that’s how their instructor had explained it when he had asked.

But why train them on something they weren’t going to use? There were plenty of rifles to go around. Caleb’s normal work as a bookkeeper kept him well informed about the inventory.

But, according to the city-fortress leaders at least, rifles were for officers. The real soldiers. Caleb and the other refugees were simply second-class citizens. Expendable. And so they only received handguns.

It grated.

He sighed and scrubbed a dirty hand over his even dirtier face, then pushed his hair back. It was getting long. Rachel was always badgering him about cutting it, but haircuts were a luxury now, along with showers, food that hadn’t been canned or infused with chemical preservatives, and most everything else that had made life worth living. There was nothing he could do about it. They were stuck. This was their life—his life.

They were here for their own protection, but, at times, it felt more like a prison than a haven.

A flake of ash landed on his nose. With an irritated flick, he brushed it away. Would the ash never end? It got
everywhere.
Into their food, their lungs, the water supply. There was a whole team of people—again, mostly refugees—assigned to clear the ash from the streets every day and empty the massive water filters. It was a maddening, constant reminder of the current state of the world.

Caleb shivered, though it wasn’t very cold.

“Nights like these always give me the chills,” a steel voice said. “Too much silence, not enough life.”

Caleb turned, this time careful not to jump, though his hand still strayed for the butt of his gun.

A man leaned against the wall near him at the edge of the lantern light, clothing stained a nondescript gray by the ash. Caleb didn’t get a good look at him, but felt like he’d seen him somewhere before. One of the other refugees, perhaps.

He shrugged and turned back to studying the night. “I prefer the silence.”

“Oh, silence can certainly be enjoyable,” the other man said as if conceding a point reluctantly. “The solitude, the independence, the self-assurance that nothing else is near you or can reach you. Just be wary that the incongruity of it doesn’t suffocate you.”

Caleb glanced over at the man out of the corner of his eye. He had straightened from his slouch and stood erect, back as straight as a board, as he peered out into the gloom. The lantern light seemed to cut the man in half and deflect the softly falling ash to either side, parting above him as if he were standing beneath an invisible umbrella. Light always did funny things when surrounded by darkness.

“You know, you’re not supposed to be up here on the wall unless it’s your turn at watch,” Caleb said.

The man laughed, a sound that was almost a hissing wheeze, like a soda bottle being opened slowly, in an attempt to not let the gasses fizzle over.

Caleb winced.

“I am at watch,” the man said. “Watching and waiting. I was given this post a long time ago really, but I just discovered it was tonight.”

Caleb stared at him, one hand idly scratching behind an ear. Was this man crazy? In truth, after everything they’d all been through, there probably weren’t any sane ones left.

“So you’re, um, my replacement for the night?” He asked.

The man shrugged, a movement almost lost in the swirl of darkness and light in which he stood. “You could be inclined to think that.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” The man hissed and made a dismissive gesture.

Caleb hesitated for a moment, split with indecision. There was something off about the situation, about the man, but he couldn’t pin it down. Shivers ran up his spine for just a moment and he shook his head.

He turned away from the wall and started down the long, narrow stairs, his decision made without even realizing it. The man behind him grunted once, but didn’t call after him so Caleb continued on his way, picking his path carefully in the darkness.

Ash made the steps slick and, at night, a single misstep could mean death. There wasn’t enough lamp oil to squander lamps everywhere. There were even fewer batteries, those too precious for anything but the emergency flashlights and powering the few remaining medical and surgical tools.

The darkness made the stairs treacherous—the ash made it deadly. The women and children would sweep the steps clean in the morning, but the soot never stopped falling. The Appalachians spewed enough dust and ash into the air these days that even after only a few short hours everything was dyed a uniform gray. When the mountains had erupted, the ash cloud had been so thick that it had blocked out the sun. Now, years later, it had dissipated enough for the moon’s light to shine through on most nights, though it carried a yellowish cast to it now that only added to the sense of death and decay.

At the bottom of the stairs, Caleb entered the actual city itself. In truth, it was a ramshackle conglomeration of less than perfect buildings tossed together in a sprawling half moon. Large warehouses stood together near the bottom of the stairs, doors locked with chains that hung thick with ash. There were no guards. None were needed. With everyone living so close together, thievery was soon found out and the thieves punished.

It had only happened once. The thief, an older man with a mild skin condition, had stolen a tube of unguent to relieve his itching. The itch hadn’t been serious, an inconvenience more than a worry. He had been tossed from the wall like a bucket of ash and refuse from the day’s cleaning. Caleb shuddered at the memory.

He passed the warehouses quickly and entered the residential section. Housing units, squat with sloped roofs and single roomed interiors, crouched against the circular wall. There were dozens of them, each holding a single family or group of roommates that had been driven together by need. They barely qualified as homes.

With a sigh, Caleb stopped in front of his own housing unit and removed his boots. Rachel would kill him if he tracked ash onto her nice clean floor. Picking up his boots, he opened the door and stepped inside.

A single candle burned on the tiny end table that served as both a desk and a place around which their small family could eat. Only a quarter of the candle’s wax had melted away, which meant that it had been lit recently. Caleb smiled as he placed his boots near the foot of the door and looked to the bed, the only other furnishing in the room, though it filled up almost the entirety of it. Rachel dozed with her head resting against Benson’s cheek, the infant cradled in her embrace, asleep on her shoulder. She looked to be half sitting, propped up with a pilled behind her back.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me, dear,” he whispered fondly, stepping carefully through the room.

Rachel and Benson dozed on, oblivious to his presence.

He watched them for a long moment, then took a seat at the table and took out a stack of papers and some pens from a box underneath. As softly as he could, he drew his gun and placed it on the table next to him, within easy reach.

Rachel murmured something in her sleep and shifted.

Smiling, Caleb looked over at her for a long moment then turned to the papers on the table with an irrepressible yawn. He leafed through the stack until he found the pages he was looking for. He set the others aside and began to write.

His pen scratched across the crumpled page in hurried quick strokes. He glanced at the oil lamp and noted with alarm that the fuel level was low. He’d have to scrounge for more soon. He was glad that their cramped housing unit had no windows to show off his wanton waste of the precious liquid on such a meaningless task.

“What are you up to, Caleb?”

He jumped and drew a long line across the page. He looked over at his wife, curled up on the small bed against the far wall. Rachel smiled at him sleepily.

“Nothing.”

“Writing again?” She sat up and checked on Benson, who snored his cute infant snore as if he knew he was being watched.

“I can’t help it. Someday someone is going to want to know how we lived during this time period in human history.” He reached into a small cardboard box at his feet and pulled out a sheaf of papers of all shapes, sizes, and colors. “Someone’s got to do it. Might as well be me. I’m not much good for anything else.”

“Yes, you are.” Rachel protested.

“Not really. I’m a good shot, yes, but I don’t take orders well. I’m not the soldier that they want me to be. I’m a pencil pusher, a thinker, not a mindless drone.”

“And is that so bad a thing?”

“No Rachel, but as bad as things are, it’s also a new opportunity. It’s a chance for me to finally be able to be somebody again. I can be a leader. I can help people. This is my chance.”

“I wish you could see yourself as I see you,” Rachel said, “You are a leader, just of a different sort. You have your family—what else do you need?”

Caleb smiled, but before he could answer a massive explosion shook the walls, sending dust and debris falling from the ceiling.

Benson bounced in his crib, coming awake with a wail.

“What was that?” Rachel shouted, rushing to comfort their screaming son.

Fear shot through him in a cascade of sudden realization.

“Mortars, Rachel—it’s mortars!”

Alarm bells sounded, ringing out through the city-fortress with frenzied abandon. People rushed by outside their door. Shouts of panic and alarm rang out in accompaniment to the sound of bells.

“Marauders again?”

As if in answer to her question, a single deep, ominous note rang out over the noise and confusion. The other bells cut off in ragged order, falling with the screams that died away. A heavy silence hung in the air.

“Oh, Caleb,” Rachel said.

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, but tears escaped the corner of her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. Benson, sensing something was wrong, began to cry. Caleb ran his fingers through his hair and stammered something inarticulate, his eyes reflecting the horror and helplessness he felt.

The room shook with another, sudden explosion, the noise deafening in the eerie silence that came before it. Rachel tumbled onto the bed, shielding Benson with her body. Caleb toppled over onto the floor and the lamp rolled off the table and smashed against the floor. Flames shot up the walls, crackling in fiery hunger.

Caleb leapt to his feet, galvanized into action. “Take the blanket, Rachel. Wrap it around you.”

She tore the blanket from the bed with one hand and wrapped it around herself. Benson squirmed against the rough material and pushed his head out from under the edge. Caleb dove under the bed and came back up holding his gun and a large survival pack. Smoke filled the room.