Hubris - 64. Chapter 64

“Stop,” Crowe begged Lask. “Please, I need a minute.”

The world was spinning out of control. Worse yet, he felt an overwhelming need to get away from his rescuer. Despite the fact that he could not give a rational reason to the cause, the need was visceral, an endless crawling up his spine. He could still hear the woman's raspy voice in his head: All that you’ve experienced you will experience again, each time worse than the last.

To his relief the horse did come to a stop. The world lurched as Crowe climbed down from the saddle; he kept his hand on the saddle. He looked up at the sound of turning gears: The gate was swinging shut. Through it he caught his last glimpse of the mob, lost souls who had traveled hundreds if not thousands of miles for sanctuary. For now they were being denied entry. He could not see the woman dressed in bones, but that didn't mean she wasn't there…watching him. He turned away with another shudder.

Crowe turned his attention reluctantly to Lask. With a look in better light the practitioner saw the young troop could have been Bennett's age. Up ahead Lucijan and the other riders were coming to a stop in what had once been a courtyard. The commander pulled his horse to a stop beside a large fountain, his horn blasting in the air.

Inside the walls of the city things were no less chaotic but there was a visible change in the air that could be felt before it was seen. Refugees filled the open spaces of the courtyard. Those who did not stand shoulder to shoulder sat around the rim of the fountain or were jammed between booths; several paced along the cobblestones, their clothes torn into bloody rags, their faces distant beneath covers of dirt. The soldiers watching from the corners of the courtyard exuded the same hollow-eyed exhaustion, their eyes shadowed, their cheeks thinned by malnutrition.

Crowe caught a glimpse of Barghast at the back of Lucijan's line. The moment Mammoth came to a stop, the Okanavian leapt off the horse. Not a moment later startled squawks sounded around the square as people rushed to get out of the way of the impatient lycan shouldering them aside. All thoughts of Lask filtered out of Crowe's mind for the time being. He ran forward until he felt the barbarian's arms close around him and inhaled the familiar musk of his fur.

“I tried to keep a hold of you but there were too many of them,” the Okanavian said in a voice that was between a whine and a growl. His tongue gently lapped at the wound above Crowe’s forehead, licking away the blood.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” The practitioner didn’t want to move. He wanted to remain like this, his head tucked against Barghast’s chest. But they were not alone. This was soon proven by an impatient grunt from close by. Lucijan stood a few paces away, his hands set on his hips; his scarred face was fixed in an impatient grimace. Reluctantly Crowe drew away from the lycan, sensing they had only reached the last leg of their journey.

“Now you see what we’ve been dealing with,” the commander told him, “and yet you haven’t seen the worst of it. It’s not the people acting out that will break your heart. It’s those who have all the fight and the will to live squashed out of them until they’re nothing but husks of their former selves. That’s what you’ll find once you step through the gates. By the time Drajen actually decides to charge on us it will be a short battle. It will be a short battle because there won’t be many of us left to fight.”

Crowe listened, watching a line of people gathered before a small booth. Vendors wearing the armbands of the resistance stood beneath the awning of the booths, passing out small wooden trays to those in line. The line went back as far as the eye could see, wrapping out of sight around a crumbling tenement. A mother clung to her hysterical child, muttering meaningless comforts while she rocked him to and fro. The woman’s dress was little more than torn rags; a single cut, a slash wound, ran the length of her cheekbone. “All of this is because of what happened on the beach? Because of the crustaceans?”

“The crustaceans are just one problem in a sea of problems,” Lucijan replied. “Until we clear out the nests you can forget our supply trains reaching us which means we can’t feed these people.”

Crowe heard the growing urgency in the commander’s voice; urgency and fatigue. Cracks had begun to appear in the grizzled man’s composure. “Very well. Lead on.”

Once the practitioner and the lycan were mounted back on Mammoth’s saddle, Lucijan fed orders to his troops. It seemed they would part here with Lucijan escorting Crowe and Barghast to the governor. Now trotting away from the courtyard, the sorcerer was glad to be out of sight of Harvey Lask. Every time he caught a glimpse of the young soldier an uneasy cramp rolled through his stomach.

In Crowe’s past life the stories he’d heard of Caemyth had told of a majestic city rich with trade. The metropolis to the South made most of its trade from the sea and was said to boast markets that spanned city blocks. His heart heavy, the herald could not keep Bennett’s face out of his mind. How many times had the two boys kept each other up with fantasies of wandering through the markets? None of the wonder they’d fantasized of was on display tonight. The streets Lucijan led Crowe and Barghast through were weary and bore the weight of war. The air of defeat he’d sensed in the courtyard was evident in every nook and cranny of the city. Men, women, and children of all ages crouched wherever there was space for them to sit: in the mouths of darkened alleyways, beneath tattered awnings, and in the doorways of beleaguered tenements. What must it be like to travel all these miles to come to this strange city, to sleep in streets one has only heard in stories? Crowe wondered. Many of these people have never left their homes before until now. How quickly we’re all learning just how ugly a place the world can be. Such cruel lessons life has to offer.

“You don’t look impressed,” Lucijan said gruffly. They’d paused at an intersection where traffic had slowed down to a crawl.

“Like many of Monad’s people, I never left home. We’d only heard stories about the great city of Caemyth.” Crowe couldn’t keep the disappointment from seeping into his voice. He squinted at a street sign. Something hung from it, pinned upside down, swinging by its tail. It took the sorcerer’s fatigued mind a moment longer than it should have to realize it was a cat.

“In its former glory you wouldn’t have found a more beautiful city,” Lucijan admitted. The gruffness in his voice had receded enough to reveal the wistfulness of an older man who longs for the days of his youth. “This is the time of year when there should be parades in the streets. If you’d come then you wouldn’t be so disappointed. In the summer months we have parades that go on for the whole days, performers in the streets, music, people dancing. But that was in another life, another world. That’s why you’re here, though, isn’t it, herald? To bring all of our suffering to an end.”

Once again Crowe failed to offer a response in the wake of Lucijan’s mockery. A dog, ribs showing through its heaving sides, limped down the street. One of its back legs had been removed, blood dripping from the stump. A mob of children, some of them little more than toddlers, others on the cusp of adolescence, chased after the injured canine with sticks and rocks and pitchforks…whatever they could get their hands on. The dog darted in between a stack of crates, fleeing into the mouth of an alley. The children hooted and hollered. Their voices rang with the alarms of madness.

Lucijan grinned humorlessly at Crowe. “Now you know why you haven’t seen any cats or dogs until now. People have become so desperate they’ve taken to eating them. Rats, too.”

“Twin o’rre,” Barghast whined in his ear, “I do not like this place. It reminds me of the cities back home.” His snout wrinkled, his eyes watering. “It reminds me of home.”

“I don’t like this place either,” the practitioner reassured him with a pat on the arm.

At last Lucijan stopped at a tower in the very center of the city. Of all the buildings Crowe had seen, it was the tallest and most impressive. Guards patrolled the pillared steps at the front of the building. The moment Crowe and Barghast climbed down from Mammoth’s saddle, several figures dressed in servant uniforms appeared to take them away with Lucijan’s assurance that the shire horse would be safe and returned to them in the morning.

Wide-eyed glances followed Crowe and Barghast as Lucijan led them up the steps, but no one stopped them. Anyone who stepped forward to intercede quickly halted when the commander turned a scathing blue eye on them. The moment the doors leading into the parlor opened a hot throb of pain stabbed through the practitioner’s skull. He stopped, gasping. He tried to muffle the sound, but Lucijan had heard him all the same. The commander turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Problems?”

“No,” the practitioner muttered hastily. It was easy to cover up the truth with a scowl. “What I am is exhausted. As I have said, my companion and I rode all the previous night and now it is morning.”

He expected the commander to make a scathing remark or cock a snowy eyebrow in disapproval; instead he nodded. “The governor should be up. I only ask that you push yourself a little further.” The weariness in his single eye said he was every bit as tired as the practitioner. The corner of his scarred mouth twitched into something that might have been the hint of a grin. “We do have a bit of a climb ahead of us.”

Crowe nodded, his lips aquiver. Barghast watched him inquisitively. When the lycan leaned forward to ask him what was wrong, the sorcerer shook his head. “Not here,” he hissed. “Not now.”

By the time they reached the top of the tower, Crowe’s limbs were so stiff he was sure he wouldn’t be able to take another step. Lucijan stopped, nodding at a pair of guards who stood before a set of double doors. The guards opened the doors with salutes and quiet mutters of, “Sir!”

They passed from the luxurious sitting room into a dimly lit hallway. Streams of the new morning’s light flooded through the door at the end of the corridor. Through it a man was visible, sitting hunched in his chair, bent over a piece of parchment. He scribbled furiously, muttering to himself. This time when Lucijan stopped it was so sudden Crowe almost walked right into him. The commander rocked back on his heels, his shoulders slumping. After hours of barking and growling to get them here, the practitioner did not know what to make of Lucijan’s pensive silence. The sorcerer could understand his unease all too well.

After a moment Lucijan pushed his head through the crack in the door. “Sir? Good, you’re awake. The herald’s here if you’re ready for him.”

The muttering ceased, followed by a, “No, no, no. Please send him in.”

Lucijan pulled his head out. “You can go in,” he told Crowe.

The door opened the rest of the way with a creak.

Governor Benedict Matthiesen sat behind a large desk in a high-backed chair. The man fixed him with a twitchy, humorless smile, his eyes red-rimmed, his face gaunt. “Hello, old friend,” he said.

The last of the strength flooded out of Crowe's legs. He lurched towards the chair opposite Matthiesen. He sat down hard enough to make the leg chairs creaked. Behind him Barghast and Lucijan stood sentry on either side of the door; the practitioner could feel the commander's suspicious gaze burning a hole in his back. “How is this possible?” the sorcerer gasped. “We’ve met before, but it's like…”

“Something you remember from a dream?” the governor finished for him. He rose out of his chair with a wince. Lucijan started forward but Matthiesen waved him off before he could cross the room. He opened a cabinet behind the desk and pulled out three glasses and a corked bottle. In the brightening light it was impossible to miss the sickly pallor of his skin or the dark bags under his eyes; the disheveled state of his hair, the reek of spirits already heavy on his breath.

“Yes,” Crowe said with a gulp.

Matthiesen did not reply immediately. The cork came out of the bottle with a loud pop that filled the room. “Commander,” he said without looking up, “you may leave us now. Thank you for bringing the herald to me.”

“Are you sure that's wise?”

The bottle’s tip touched the lip of the glass and stopped. “Don't worry, we are among friends. This is a conversation I wish to have in private. You, Roan, and I will reconvene later in the afternoon.”

The commander grimaced, making his disapproval clear. The practitioner expected him to object further but instead he nodded with a stiff salute. Crowe felt something like satisfaction flutter in his stomach; he’d grown weary of Lucijan's glares of suspicion and dislike. The door closed swiftly behind the commander.

Benedict slid a glass of whiskey across the table to Crowe without asking if he would like one. He surprised the practitioner by rounding the table to Barghast; he didn't seem to mind that the lycan towered over him, having to hunch slightly to keep his ears from touching the ceiling. Barghast glanced dubiously at the sorcerer, pressing his ears back in question.

“It's spirits,” Crowe told him. He raised the glass to his lips, taking a small sip in demonstration. After a moment's hesitation, the Okanavian did the same only to grimace with a cough. He passed the glass of spirits back. “No…thanks,” he said in the common tongue just the way the herald had taught him, his tail wagging.

Again Benedict surprised them both by chuckling. “They don't have whiskey where you come from? Normally I keep a few bottles of the more expensive stuff handy, but it's been slim pickings lately. I apologize for Lucijan’s gruff manner,” he added to Crowe, seating himself behind the desk. He sipped at his whiskey. “He’s a man of his training: hard as steel, but loyal.” It was impossible to miss the glow of admiration in Matthiesen’s voice. “There is a reason why he is one of two of my chief security advisors. He's been a little more cranky than usual lately. We all have. Unfortunately I’ve given him and the rest of my staff cause for concern.”

“I’ll try not to take it personally next time.”

“You shouldn't. He's just doing his job.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Benedict was the first to break it. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“How many times?”

“This is the third.”

It was the practitioner's turn to sip at his whiskey. “Is each time the same?”

Benedict hesitated in a moment of brief contemplation. “Not all things. Things happen when they're supposed to, but they never happen in the same way.”

A whisper broke through the haze in Crowe's mind. “You're talking about the black hole. You sent Barghast and I to find it.”

Matthiesen nodded.

“And now I’m back here.”

Another nod.

“And you remember?”

A third nod.

“Then that means I’ve met Lucijan before, but he doesn't remember. So you and I are the only ones who remember?”

“That seems to be the case,” Matthiesen murmured.

He’s not the only one, the practitioner thought. The boy from the beach remembered me as well. And you can't forget the woman…Slowly memories were returning to him now: the fort with its messages scrawled in burning paint; the woods without time or direction; the village of Caldreath, a village that should not have been there, its villagers trapped by illusions of peace and victory; the commander who had sold her soul to the Architect to achieve that victory. All of this he recalled in seconds, his head filling with a rushing sensation that made him lean back in his chair.

The Architect…

Crowe looked down at his trembling hands. He forced himself to meet Matthiesen's weary gaze. “The woman dressed in bones…have you seen her? As she said anything to you?”

Matthiesen shook his head, clasping his hands together. “This is the first I’m hearing of a woman ‘dressed in bones.’ Nor have I seen such an apparition."

“She's an Architect. She's the reason for the black hole’s existence. Lora Gyrell? Has she and the refugees returned to the city?”

“She has not. She has never returned in any of these…loops.”

The practitioner nodded intently. “She's in Caldreath?”

Matthiesen frowned. “That's not possible. Caldreath burned down a century ago.”

Crowe laughed bitterly. “Is anything impossible when it comes to the power of an Architect? If you were to look at a map of this region you would see that the black hole is in the exact same spot where Caldreath used to be. The Architect is using Gyrell's grief…her thirst for vengeance…as a template or a power source to fuel the black hole.”

The governor scratched at three weeks of unshaved salt-and-pepper beard; his fingers made a rasping sound. “That is a most disturbing thought. But it's not what frightens me most. There's something else you must know: Almost two months after you left Caemyth, Drajen and his troops seized the city.”

The practitioner felt the blood drain from his face. “What?”

“The last thing I remember before waking up in my bed was the ceiling coming down over my head. The sky was filled with fire, the ground shaking under my feet. This city has withstood countless attacks and the walls always kept us safe…until now. But I simply do not have the manpower or resources to stand up to Drajen's forces. The siege was sudden and it was brutal and it was short. The Pope caught us with our pants down. I can only guess as to what would drive him to act so abruptly.”

Crowe drained the last finger of whiskey from his glass. He looked at the governor intently, his eyes blurred with tears from the satisfying burn of the whiskey. “I think I have an idea as to what. Inquisitor Charoum was at the black hole as well; my guess is he was there to investigate it the same as Barghast and myself.” In his mind he watched the Inquisitor burn. He held his glass with white knuckles.

Matthiesen's lips curled into a cynical grin. “I don't need to ask what happened between you and the Inquisitor.”

The sorcerer cocked an eyebrow. “No, you don't. But I suspect his death may be the reason Drajen sieged your city - the Inquisitor never returned from his investigation.”

Benedict’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table. His gaze remained fixed on the decanter of whiskey as if he was contemplating another glass. When he looked up his eyes watered with tears. “I’m not one who usually takes to begging, but my back is pressed up against a wall. I don't want to have to lie to my children that everything is going to be okay again. You are the only one who can free us from this loop. Please…” He leaned forward, his eyes wide and red-rimmed and he grabbed Crowe's wrist. “Do not fail a third time.”

                     …

“There is much you have been keeping from me,” Barghast said from the doorway.

Crowe stood on the balcony of the high rise apartment, looking down at the streets below. He turned to face the lycan, his heart giving a guilty start. If only he could think of something to say…anything was better than silence.

“I may not be able to understand the people around us, but I can tell when something is disturbing you,” the Okanavian insisted, stepping out onto the balcony. “You looked at that man earlier as if you’d met him before.”

“I have.” Crowe chuckled, the sound edged with hysteria. “I didn't tell you because I couldn't make sense of it. At first it only seemed like a dream and then we came here and I knew for sure. It doesn't matter because we're not going this time.”

Barghast pulled the practitioner to him. “Why not, my beloved?”

“Because…” Crowe stopped, his hands trembling. Tears threatened to overwhelm him. His mind raced, seeking words to describe what he was experiencing. A montage of colors and sounds from another life replayed behind his claws eyes. “Because if we go, you’ll die.”

Barghast backed towards the edge of the bed and pulled Crowe into his lap. Fucking the practitioner's head, he began to rock back and forth. “My life is inconsequential,” he rumbled after a moment.

Crowe looked up. “Not to me it isn't.”

“What you're doing is more important than my life.”

“I will never accept that. I can't.”

“Are you saying my life is more important than the rest of the world’s?”

“It is to me,” Crowe said. “What's the point in saving the world if you're not in it?”

Barghast's eyes cooled from molten gold to a soft amber color. “If you already know what will happen then you can prevent it from happening.”

“According to the governor I’ve already tried…twice. Which means I failed both times.”

Barghast's fingers curled around his own, enveloping them. Gently he lifted Crowe's hand, examining the lines of his palm as if he were seeing them for the first time. “Has anyone told you you have the tiniest most beautiful hands?”

The sorcerer chuckled in spite of himself. “No one but you.”

“From the moment I’ve met you, you’ve always helped those who needed it,” the Okanavian rumbled. “You helped me when you could have left me for dead. I have witnessed you help others who would have paid with their lives if you hadn't. When you do you make the world a more beautiful place. Tell me, in this place where me must go…this black hole…are people trapped?”

“Yes, though I don't think they know it.”

Barghast brushed a lock of black hair out of Crowe's eyes. “Then I know together we will help them …because that is what we do. Do not let fear change who you are.”

“So, you want to go? Even if it means death.”

“I go where you go. And I know you're going to the black hole to help these people. So yes, I’m going with you.”

It seemed to Crowe that he had only closed his eyes when someone started pounding at the door hard enough to make it shake in its frame. Barghast was already on his paws, rifle in hand, a snarl fixed on his muzzle. Crowe glanced confusedly out the window where he could see the first hints of morning light. Waving Barghast away from the door, he crossed the room and pulled it open. Harvey Lask's wide green eyes fastened onto his.

“Herald, you must come with us,” he panted. The man was dressed in full military armor; he clutched at his side as if he'd run a great distance. “You must help us. There's been an attack.”