​​​​36 Mayhem and Beetles

IN THE CITY OF Endor, all the buildings were eye-wrenching. Enough to turn a viral’s shrunken stomach to mulch. The ceiling of the current architectural absurdity Threadfin crawled through, had split with a crack. Dust and masonry rained down, while the revenants gave chase, above, below, and behind.

His power was useless, but he had a brain. Well, not the physical organ perhaps, which wasn’t in good condition. A mind, yes, he had a mind. He reached up to touch the silver angel at his neck, and swore. He’d given it to Astra. Might explain a few things, he thought. No wonder my luck is terrible.

Fire licked doorframes and blackened stone. He wanted to scream. What good is being a mage? he thought for the hundredth time. It’s only ever brought me grief, and when I need magic, I don’t have it. It was fortunate he was angry, or otherwise he would’ve been terrified.

Endor had erupted into chaos. Orange flames consumed stairwells and corridors, billowing smoke. Stone didn’t burn, but people did. The once-people hunted him, and they did so with inhuman speed. Flames smothered some, who in turn set others alight. On several occasions, they had come close to overrunning him. In the streets he had no hope, but clambering up, leaping from, and crawling through the buildings gave him a chance. He put objects, walls and flames between him and them.

Their attack had begun after Lorn had leapt. He’d flung himself at the parapet, staring down, expecting to see her lying in the street. Instead, she was in the arms of the Fetch. She had looked unconscious, not dead. With a gesture from the Fetch, the revenants had emerged from the darkness. In seconds, they had surged into his building.

Remembering what Lorn had told him, he’d rushed back inside. From Pole’s satchel, he had produced the fire striker and flint. He’d reached the boy with his open throat, who continued to flail. Beetles lay everywhere, all of them dead. Ripping the upper clothing from the hapless lad, he’d quickly struck a fire at the top of the stairs, amongst old rags and bits of wood, and hundreds of the insects. All the while, he heard the revenants cramming the stairwells further down.

The buildings were stone walled, but some wood remained of the inner ones, and roofs. He’d then added the flailing boy to the pyre, not thinking about it much. If he stopped and thought, he would balk.

It all went up in flames, much too quick. The revenants reached him, throwing themselves into the fire. He’d fled down the corridor towards a neighbouring building. He could see it through a large gap in the wall. Unfortunately, the burning revenants chasing him caused the conflagration to spread. Now, they were deciding which route he took.

The fire consumed hundreds of them, but there were thousands more. They tore at him with emaciated fingers. The bodies lived, blood pouring from wounds, but the souls within were no longer aware. He hoped.

Stabbing them did little good. They bled, but they didn’t die. Rounding a corner, he encountered a knot of milling revenants. There were children and elderly among them, soldiers with weapons, mothers with babes, all eyeless, earless, and lips sewn shut.

The whole situation was ludicrous. For the first time, he saw it from a breather’s perspective, what they feared when they whispered of Plagueborn. He thought he understood what they saw when they looked at him. No wonder they hate us. Hate is born of fear.

The ceiling fractures in the current building, lengthened. Masonry dislodged and struck a girl of ten, who’d blocked his path. She fell, her face a mask of nothingness. The gaping pits of her eyes followed him as he rushed past. A shriek erupted in the darkness. The Fetch hadn’t left, which meant Lorn was out there.

Yeah, you ugly, bone-headed turd, Threadfin thought, ignoring the fact it bore his face. ‘You’re not getting me so easy. The mage dodged hands, and smashed into an elderly man with such force he heard bones crack. The old man’s thankfully, not his. It didn’t stop the eyeless codger from trying to catch him. He’d seen a man without a head at one point, blood spouting from the neck as he flailed about. Tezcat would have collapsed in laughter at that one.

Then the fires died. Everything went still. Threadfin had halted mid-flight. He was blind, his viralic sight as muted as his power. Stepping back into the corridor, he felt them close by. He caught the pungent stink of unwashed bodies, urine, faeces, and blood. All good smells to a viral, but why were they so quiet? All he heard was the odd shuffle of a foot, or rustle of rags.

So, he thought, this is how it ends, eh? Not exactly, how I would’ve gone about it, but hey, it had to end sometime. Perhaps it was best. His reflection was responsible. He’d come in search of a woman he loved, and an artifact he needed. Now, he found he didn’t care one whit about the Stone because he had lost Lorn.

He’d lost both of Pole’s daggers, one lodged in a little girl’s skull. Grim-hooded thing was still crawling about wearing it like a hat. Grim-hooded, he thought, huh, well, ironic doesn’t cut it. How often had he called on the old bastard, and all along it was Rasnal-up-his-own-hole-Nalrost.

The fires flared into life.

Among the revenants were new arrivals. These had their eyes in their heads and their mouths open. Worse, they were aware. The newcomers screamed, tried to escape, and died. The mob ignored him. He found himself rooted, unable to look away.

There were children, parents, soldiers, servants, rich and poor, many with non-Icarthian clothing. Some didn’t look human, as though from other worlds. A few had large black eyes with no lids and grey skin, or limbs overlong and gangly. Some were the size of children, but with wizened faces. There were a handful of kobolds in the mix too. They all died.

A revenant paused to use a short blade to open its mouth. Giant beetles surged forth, as the jaws dislocated to accommodate their number. The insects surged over the victims, leaving nothing but cleaned bones in their wake.

Threadfin couldn’t do anything. The only way out was to go through it. As he ducked and rolled, his boots crunched on exoskeletons. He moved quick, trying to avoid both revenants and beetles.

The Fetch strode through the slaughter, forcing Threadfin to stop. He was trapped. The mob parted, as though it were anathema to them. Even the beetles avoided it. Wisps of charcoal-like power leapt from its body. The Grim’s servant touched those who’d managed to avoid death.

These ones ceased screaming and began gouging out their eyes, tearing off their ears. Wisps of the Fetch’s power knitted their lips together. This was a recruitment for an army. It chose those it deemed good enough, an army to enslave worlds.

With no other option, Threadfin turned and hurled himself back through the press of bodies. When he emerged, the Fetch again blocked the way. It moved towards him, pace increasing. Its long limbs were like twisted cords of black muscle beneath the cloak. Its glowing eyes fixed upon him. His reflection, but twisted into something hideous. Is it a reflection of who I am, or who I was supposed to be? Threadfin prepared himself to fight. No weapons, no magic. This wasn’t going to go well.

Something leapt at the Fetch, hurtling into it. Both toppled from sight.

Running again, Threadfin spotted an exit and leapt through it. He tripped and fell down the broad steps beyond. He tumbled amid crumbling columns and bodies and landed hard. He stared up at a huge temple, a monument of stone dwarfing anything he’d yet seen in Endor.

He got up, limped through a twisted iron gateway, and entered a dead grove. He didn’t go far before halting and half turning back. You know there is nothing you can do. Never was, and she knew it too. You just took your damned time figuring it out.

It began to rain. Something mundane, but it felt good. He raised his scaled face to the water, not caring if it was acidic. Then within the downpour, he spotted it on the edge of a round tower of the temple. Night clung like a ragged cloak to the Grim’s servant. Beside it, a smaller form. It held her by the hair, and it was obvious by the way her arms dangled she was unconscious or dead. It wanted him to see, to know despair. The downpour increased and they became lost in the haze.

Threadfin turned and fled through the grove. Lorn had aided his escape. She’d rammed into the Fetch, distracting it. He wanted to return and save her, but a growing army of revenants suggested otherwise. He was powerless.

Then again, what else was new?