Hubris - 63. Episode 63

The journey from the massacre at the beach to Caemyth did nothing to improve Crowe’s initial impression of Lucijan. The commander led them towards the city at a constant gallop, moving with the haste and determination of someone who has been called back to battle. His troops had no problems keeping it up: it seemed they had been trained for such travel, able to shape their bodies with the will of their mounts. Their horses were tall and leanly built, their progress unimpeded by the sand. The same could not be said for Mammoth, who had the personality of ten horses but whose body was simply too cumbersome with a lycan and a practitioner sitting atop the saddle. Only when Crowe and Barghast had fallen out of sight would Commander Lucijan wait for them to catch up.

They’d been riding for several hours when Crowe caught up to Lucijan what would be the sixth time. The other groups had gathered in a formation, exchanging jokes; those who did not partake in the conversation busied themselves with appearing more interested in the horizon while casting curious glances in the practitioner and lycan’s directions.

“You need a better horse,” Lucijan said in the same voice he might have used to talk about the weather. The look he gave Crowe was one of embarrassment or pity or both. “How have you made it this far on that beast?”

“Sheer force of will,” Crowe muttered. He lifted his head with a wince. After hours of riding his back ached and his thighs were chafed. Hunger gnawed constantly at his belly. “Commander I know we need to make great haste back to Caemyth but our mount is not able to ride any further…not without rest and water first.”

Lucijan looked away from him as if the horizon was more interesting. “Not a chance. We don’t have time…”

“Then make time!” Crowe snapped. He wasn’t the only one who was exhausted. Barghast remained in the saddle, panting; strings of saliva dangled from his tongue. They’d emptied both of their water canteens hours ago. “Our water canteens are empty! We’ve been riding the whole day - long before we bumped into you on the beach. Surely there is a spring or a body of water close by.”

Lucijan gave him a long considering look before he lifted his own water canteen. “Here. You can drink from mine.”

Under normal circumstances Crowe might have hesitated but he was parched past the point of hesitation. He twisted the cap off the waterskin before passing it back to Barghast. “You’ve told me nothing about what the governor wants from me. Does it have to do with what happened on the beach? What was that? What attacked those people?”

“You’ve seen the giant crabs on the beach?”

The practitioner nodded. When Lucijan did not elaborate further, the sorcerer’s jaw dropped. “They attacked them? We’ve glimpsed them on the beach before but they always seemed to stick to the water…they didn’t come anywhere near us.”

“That used to be the consensus,” Lucijan agreed with a grunt. “Up until now they’ve mostly been harmless. Occasionally you would hear tales of one straying from their pack or nest or whatever you want to call it and a farmer would complain about how it attacked their cows or chickens. Judging from the look on your face, you don’t believe me.”

“I’ve seen plenty of slaughter on my travels,” the practitioner admitted. “Done by human hands. But none of it looked like what I saw today.”

This earned him another grunt and another nod. “These are strange times we’re living in. Within the past month these creatures…these crustaceans we call them…have been coming out of the ocean. That’s what they do during breeding situation: they’ll come out of the water and find a nice warm underground cave close by to dig under and they’ll lay their eggs; then when they all hatch they’ll return to the ocean. During this time of the year you can see dozens of them coming out of the water…until this year that is…This year we’ve seen hundreds come out of the water, maybe even thousands. And these ones aren’t friendly either. Because of this infestation supply chains have been delayed, which means the city hasn’t gotten the food or medical supplies it needs to keep our troops up and running. What’s worse, we can’t guarantee the refugees the safety we promised. If it’s not torchcoats they have to worry about then it’s the giant fucking grabs!” He grimaced, the scars on his face deepening into endless pits. “Those they don’t kill they drag off into the woods, most likely to the cave where they’re nesting. Monad only know what they’re doing with them. With this many swarming the beaches it’s damn nigh impossible sending relief out. I’ve lost over a dozen men trying to corral them back.”

Barghast reached over Crowe’s shoulder, passing the canteen to the practitioner. He took a healthy swig from it before passing it back to Lucijan. “It sounds like you’re at your wit’s end.”

“Wit’s end?” Lucijan chortled gruffly. “That’s not the only thing I’m out of. If you don’t believe me, you will. You’ll see plenty of the beastly monstrosities in the morning! They’re more active during the day otherwise they like to burrow beneath the sand until morning.”

“And Governor Matthiesen wants me to…?”

The commander rolled his eyes as if the question was obvious. “We know where the buggers are sleeping and making their babies? Now I’ve seen swarms of these things coming out of the water, I don’t want to imagine how many will be coming out when they’re ready to hatch, do you see what I mean? Matthiesen wants to send in a demolition team to wipe the nest out before that happens. Do you see where this is going?”

Crowe grimaced. “And he wants me to help.”

Lucijan tipped him a mocking wink. “Well you are the herald, aren’t you?”

                                                                             …

Upon seeing Caemyth’s fortified walls Crowe did not feel the excitement of relief he expected to feel: Instead an all too familiar sense of dread pulled at the back of his mind, premonitory in nature. A premonition that had nothing to do with the thousands of bodies pressed together outside the fortified gates of the city. What he saw was not a safe haven but a society teetering on the edge of madness. Not teetering, but falling over the edge of the precipice. He squinted at the walls, unable to believe what he was seeing.

An ocean made of human refugees churned in front of the great city as one great body, their voices raised in a combined shout full of desperate rage. Torches burned in spite of the storm building overhead, a building charge in the air, perhaps channelled by the mob. Guards, rendered down to pinpricks of torchlight, could be seen running the lengths of the battlements armed with rifles and slingshots. Refugees pushed ladders made of cobbled together branches and ripped fabric up against the wall; the desperate men and women who tried to climb the matters faced a long fall back to the ground as the guards fired warning shots to keep them at bay. Those who were too far away to join the fight into the city watched empty-eyed from where they’d set up camp. Several tents and wagons had been set up but most camps were made with whatever supplies the refugees could put together. The air was astringent with fear and sweat.

Lucijan led Crowe and his troops towards the masses without blinking an eye at the throng of chaos parting around him. His scarred face told a narrative of angry mobs and hard won victories against the greater odds. He looked back once at Crowe's pale face, his face twisting into a humorless grin with bare teeth. “If you think it's bad now, wait until you get into the city.”

Behind the practitioner the Okanavian made a chuffing sound of disapproval. “The air reeks, twin o’rre.”

“Breathe through your mouth,” was all Crowe could think of to say.

They were coming towards the edge of the human wall now; they were still a half a mile away from the city walls. Lucijan drew his horse close enough to Crowe's to toss a braided rope over his lap. “Keep a hold of that, herald.” He used the word herald with mocking emphasis. “It's all too easy to get lost in the crowd. Once you do, good luck finding your way back out.”

Crowe didn't need to be warned twice. He seized the rope with white knuckles.

The commander raised a horn made of bone to his lips and blew into it. The shouts of the crowd were dimmed by the warbling sound that came out of the horn. Lucijan bellowed something but the words were lost in the shriek that ripped itself out of Barghast's throat. Pinning the rope between his thighs, Crowe twisted around in his saddle. He clapped his hands over Barghast's ears for all the good it would do. Even then he could not take his eyes off the commotion taking place over his shoulder.

The refugees at the back of the wall did not part from the commander, but turned slowly; some of them hunkered as if they’d been struck. It didn't take long for Crowe to see this was for a good reason for Lucijan and his troops suddenly had foot long batons in their hands; the practitioner could not remember watching them reach for them. Crowe silently willed the refugees to part, to not incur the wrath of Lucijan and his troops. If any of the refugees picked up on the signal (of course they didn't) it was promptly ignored. If anything they drew together, the wall seemed to close tighter. Behind their dirt-streaked faces their eyes told stories of exhaustion, terror, and defiance. Crowe could see it in their eyes: We’ve made it this far. We will not back down…

“I’m only going to warn you once,” Lucijan growled. “Back away.”

The refugees did not back away and paid for their defiance. Lucijan grunted something and his troops charged forward. Crowe and Barghast leaned towards each other, shielded each other as if they were the targets of the retaliation. The sound of steel thunking hard against flesh and bone and of bodies hitting the ground made the practitioner want to scream. He was vaguely aware of the rope, still held tightly in his sweaty hand as if it were a lifeline, tugging against his palm. Mercifully Mammoth started forward.

The fight to get to the gates was a battle Crowe and Barghast had not been prepared for. It was a battle that seemed to have no end in sight. Hands reached desperately for them; eyes looked up at them, pleading and dark and tragically beautiful in their desperate need for survival. But not all were fighting into Caemyth. Groups of people cavorted in the mob, their naked, sweaty bodies heaving in the dirt.

A woman leapt towards Crowe, leaping from the fray the way a fish leaps out of the water, seeming to spring up almost. Her lips were drawn back in an expression somewhere between a grin and a sob. The practitioner reached for her instinctively without knowing why he did so. Before his hands could close around hers, Lucijan struck her in the face with a baton. Crowe felt rather than saw the impact of the baton striking bone; the flat head of the baton slammed into the woman's nose. The impact knocked her flat before she hit the ground.

Crowe gaped at the fallen woman. She moved but only slightly; blood flowed from the cracks in between her fingers. Through the shock the practitioner could feel an indescribable rage building up inside of him. He turned that fury on Lucijan. “Why?” he cried. “Why did you do that to her…?”

His demands fell on deaf ears. Already Lucijan had kicked his mount forward, the gap he’d opened before him already closing. Before Crowe could kick Mammoth forward, he felt hands pull at him. Before he could topple over the side of the horse, Barghast grabbed a hold of his arms. It was too late. Not even Barghast could free him from the five sets of arms that pulled him to the ground.

Barghast and Mammoth disappeared in a flood of angry faces and reaching hands. They yanked incessantly at his robes. Voices cursed in his ears, spat in his face, pulled at his hair. It didn't matter that they were strangers who he’d never seen before in his life; it didn't matter that he like them was trying to get into the city. The world is coming undone at the seams, the practitioner thought. Madness prevails!

He turned his head just in time to see something soar towards his skull. Before he could duck, stars exploded across his field of vision. The impact rocked his head back. He blinked them away, rolling onto his stomach. Blood dripped down his forehead in rivulets. The stone that had opened a gash above his eyebrow turned underneath his hand. He knew he needed to climb to his feet, he knew he needed to get away but he couldn't get his legs underneath him. He stopped before a pair of bare feet. The feet were graceful and did not disturb the grainy sand beneath them.

Slowly Crowe raised his head, expecting more blows to rain down on him. Instead he found himself looking up at a woman dressed in the bones of dead animals. Pale blue eyes watched him through the eyes of the horned skull the woman wore atop her head. Get away from her! a voice squeaked in the back of the sorcerer's mind. She's the cause for this madness! But he couldn't look away. If anything he felt drawn to her. He felt as if he was falling into her. He did not sense malignance from her, only a grief so great it encompassed all else. A being who has only known eternal loss and suffering. A witness who knew what the ending entailed because they'd already experienced it themselves.

“Stop this!” Crowe begged her. He reached for her with bloody fingers, unable to understand what he meant or her configuration in the matter of things. He felt as if he was reacting to a knowledge known only by the body, not the mind, driven by the same force when he'd been on the beach with the dying boy named Ashe. “Set them free!”

“I cannot free them,” the woman told him in a raspy voice that sounded all too familiar. “I am not the one who holds the key to their prison…you are.”

“No,” Crowe uttered. He shook his head in denial.

“All that you’ve experienced you will experience again, each time worse than the last,” the woman informed him and her voice carried the weight of prophecy portent. “You will try to change the outcome, but the wrongness that spreads through this world will only continue to grow like a tumor, behind your back. Twice you have already failed them. How many times must they pay for your ignorance…”

Somewhere close by something burned. He inhaled the smell of burning meat. Against his will he felt his belly grumble; he couldn't remember the last time he’d eaten anything close to a full meal. If he had anything left in his stomach he might have vomited at the woman's feet from the sheer ache. No! he thought. The torchcoat's are here! The Theocracy had come to slaughter Monad's people and they were all gathered before the gates like lamb gathered for the slaughter. They’ve all doomed themselves and there's nothing I can do to help them…I don't know what it is I’m supposed to do.

The crowd closed in on him once more, shrinking down to the pinpoint of a needle. This is it, he thought. The very people I’m supposed to save will be my undoing. And the enemy is right at their backs…

Then they parted, splitting away from each other as an armored horse burst into view. It jumped up on its hind legs with a bellow, its front legs kicking at anyone who dared advanced. There was a loud bang like a gunshot and a bright flash from the corner of his vision. Before he could shrink away, a gauntleted hand seized his arm. “On your feet!” a vaguely familiar voice growled in his ear. “Get on the saddle!”

Before Crowe could take measure of his rescuer those hands shoved at his back, hard sharp shoves that propelled him towards the horse. The practitioner didn't have the strength or the courage to resist. He clawed for the saddle, the toes of his boots dragging through the dirt as he pulled himself upright. No sooner had he hooked his leg around the horse’s flanks, the other rider had done the same, spurring the horse forward with a kick from his boots. For a moment the world rocked backward until Crowe's rump hit the saddle. A hand seized the back of his robes one last time and then the horse surged forward with a shout from its master.

The gates of Caemyth yawned open. Troops adorned in the blue armor of the resistance matched out by the dozens, not armed with rifles or blades but the same batons Crowe had seen Lucijan and his troops wield. Riot gear, the practitioner thought. He breathed a sigh of relief. They're not sending the troops out here to kill them.

The faces of the refugees raced past him in a blur. Faces covered in dirt, with blisters and bruises and sores eaten away by infection and disease. The sounds of melee, of steel crashing into human flesh and bone receded behind him as he plunged through the gate at last.

Blinking through the blood that had begun to crust to his skin, Crowe snatched a glance at his rescuer. The words of thanks rising up in his throat died. Underneath the scars drawn by previous brushes with dust, the man riding behind the practitioner was only older by a few years. The man's dark eyes held a determination that had yet to be dimmed by life’s tribulations; yet in that determination Crowe could also see a hint of steel that poked out as sharp as a blade. It was a face the practitioner had seen in his dreams. Dreams of death.

“What's your name?” Crowe stammered even though he already knew the answer.

“Harvey,” the boy answered. “Harvey Lask.”