Disintegration: The Todor Trilogy, Book Two Page 3

“We’re ready,” Soman said with certainty.

  “Then show me,” Archigadh said and stepped back, taking a seat on the nearest bench.

  Soman looked over the group of soldiers. There were ten of them, each one covered from head to toe in glistening metal that was fashioned to look like the ancient felitaurs: teeth-baring lions above the waist, bone-crushing bulls below. On their backs, and fastened to their arms, were enormous wings made of intricately-layered metal plates like sharpened feathers. These wings could block a blow as well as cut right through an attacker. The armor was designed to make them look identical so that when they moved together in a group, it was nearly impossible to decipher where one felitaur ended and the next one began.

  “We are here to prove to the Chief that we are ready for battle,” Soman said to them. “You have trained well and I have no doubt of your readiness. If we go to war it will be Iturtians we face on the battlefield. As you know, this means that Zobanites will fight Zobanites because the weak-bodied Iturtians must use mind tricks to wage war. They know they would not last a moment if they truly fought us, so they employ their filthy glinting and turn us into their weapons. But it does not matter, for if there is one thing a Zobanite knows well, it is how to fight.”

  The team of soldiers hooted their approval and Soman led them to the center of the arena where he instructed them to stand in circle, facing one another.

  “Your enemy stands across from you,” he said, taking a step back from the circle. “Fight on!”

  Instantly the circle of soldiers turned into a shiny, metallic blur as the Zobanites used their swiftness to attack and defend simultaneously. Soman closed his eyes and listened to the sound of metal on metal. He heard the sweet, bell-like ring of blades making contact with one another, and the lower, hollower clang of blade meeting armor. He listened carefully for the distinct scraping sound of a blade piercing through armor, but he did not hear it. He flared his nostrils and sniffed deeply, searching for the scent of fresh blood, but there was none. The soldiers defended themselves well.

  Soman continued walking backwards until he stood next to his father on the bench. “It is difficult to see,” he said to the Chief, “but they have all become quite adept at using the wings of their armor to shield and wound at the same time.”

  “Aye,” Archigadh replied. “I can see it well enough.”

  Soman glanced at his father, not sure if he truly understood how ready the Zobanite forces were for war. “We have spent many hours training blind, our eyes covered with leather bands,” he said, hoping to press the point. “We have learned the way the air sounds as a blade moves through it and the smell of an arrow on approach. We can defend against anything.”

  “You have done well, my son,” Archigadh said, his gaze steady on the fighting soldiers. “On your very first day of training here, I taught you that a wise Zobanite relies first on his speed and then on his strength. I see you remembered that lesson well and have passed it on to the forces. If an Iturtian cannot distinguish one Zobanite from another, it is all the more difficult for them get inside our heads.”

  Soman smiled at the praise, but knew he had not truly earned it. “It was a lesson you taught us all,” he said. “The soldiers already knew these things before I ever became their leader. They have been ready for war for a very long time.”

  Archigadh sighed and stood up. “I must prepare for the ceremony. You may dismiss the soldiers. I will see you at the grand square on the hour,” he said and walked towards the arena gate.

  “You may go!” Soman shouted at the soldiers, and stood as he was until all of them had left the arena. Then, he collapsed onto the bench behind him. The fatigue had returned and all he could think of was sleep. “I will rest here for only a moment,” he said to himself.

  “There is food at the grand square,” a worker said, suddenly appearing before Soman, again with a look of concern upon his face. “You are weak. You must eat.”

  Soman nodded, but the thought of food made the back of his throat convulse and he feared he may vomit again. “Thank you,” he replied simply and struggled to his feet, forcing himself to walk to the grand square for the ceremony.

  Soman gasped when he entered the square. An enormous pyre—twelve levels high—had been constructed in the very center, and thousands of lounging chairs had been arranged in circles around it. Soman could see that the body of Keeper Clary, The Ancestor, had been placed at the top of the pyre covered with woven flowers and golden ribbons. Tall, golden pedestals with flames dancing from their tops, circled the pyre. The smell of warmed, herb oils and flowers permeated the air.

  A worker approached him and handed him a golden goblet. Soman lifted it to his nose and inhaled. Strong wine. He took a small sip and it instantly turned to a sticky, fruity paste in his mouth.

  The worker motioned for Soman to follow him and walked to a lounging chair not far from the pyre. Soman took a seat there and looked around, recognizing the faces of several former Aerites in the crowd. He also noticed the faces of many of the Zobanites—his brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles—these were his blood kin. Surrounded by so many familiar faces, how was it that he felt alone? He knew the answer immediately: Gemynd and Numa were not there. They were the ones who shared the bonds of his heart. He respected Archigadh and enjoyed his company; he found comfort in Marta and Maireen. He trained and laughed with his Zobanite siblings, but there was nothing of substance there. Only Gemynd and Numa really knew him.

  Soman shook his head to clear it of such absurd thoughts. “Zobanites are my real family,” he reminded himself. “These are the people I can trust.”

  “All hail Chief Archigadh!” a worker called from the entrance to the square and everyone stood.

  Archigadh strode into the arena wearing his finest garment. Instead of the usual white, it was a deep purple fabric woven intermittently with fine gold thread that caught the light from the pedestal flames and made Archigadh appear to shimmer. His beard had been freshly braided and tied with golden chains, while a wreath of mantle leaves and oil berries encircled his head. As he paraded across the square to a dais that had been set up on the opposite side, a worker handed him a golden goblet.

  “It is a rare occurrence for Zobanites to experience death,” he bellowed to the crowd. “Progon, The Ancestor, was the father of us all. It would be nigh impossible to recount his life’s works and we shant do that. But we can make sure his crossing to the Viyii is worthy of all that he gave to us, and we shall do it in proper Zobanite fashion.”

  Archigadh raised his goblet and the crowd shouted, “Hear him! Hear him!”

  “Zobanites do not mourn!” he shouted in a voice so loud the entire city shook. “We celebrate!”

  The crowd erupted in cheers while drummers poured into the square from every entrance, pounding a rhythm that even the dead could not ignore. Following the drummers, a group of dancers came in, leaping and twirling to the beat, clad only in shiny oil. The dancers wielded golden batons and, in perfect unison, dipped the ends of them into the pedestal fires. With stunning precision, they tossed their flaming batons into the air then caught them and began spinning them in a show of swirling flames.

  Soman was entirely mesmerized by the fire dancers and could not move his gaze from them. He felt disoriented watching the flames spin and bounce through the air. Then the dancers put their batons in their mouths and linked arms, moving in a grand circle around the pyre. They moved as if of a single mind, like an enormous headless snake coiling around its prey.

  Then all at once, the dancers leapt forward, spilling the pedestal fires onto the pyre and the entire lower level of it burst into flames. The crowd, again, erupted in cheers. The Ancestor’s journey to the Viyii had begun.

  The dancers spread out, slinking through the crowd, pulling spectators to the floor to join the dance. At the same time, workers brought in cart after cart of lavish foods, while others poured endless wine into golden goblets. It was a Zobanite feast that would never be forgotte
n.

  Soman shifted in his lounging chair, trying to find comfort as the ache consumed his body once more. The very vapors from the wine in his goblet made his head spin and he felt he was only able to see what was before him in flashes of movement and bits of time.

  “Will you join me, son?” Archigadh asked, appearing before him.

  “Of course, Chief,” Soman replied reflexively and stood, though all he wanted was a moment to rest.

  Soman quickly discovered that rest would not be an option for quite some time, for Archigadh insisted that the two of them journey to the top of Zoban Mountain. Fortunately, Soman found that flying took less effort than walking and he let his eyes slip closed as he aimed for the top.

  When they reached the summit, both men faced northeast overlooking the Iturtian desert below. Soman felt tears burn the back of his eyes as he took in the amazing view. The moon was enormous and hung low in the sky, shining like silver. And the way it illuminated the red sands was nothing short of breathtaking. Somehow, the moonlight brought Iturtia to life and made it appear to be moving, undulating, pulsing like blood obeying the commands of a beating heart.

  Soman blinked and felt a tear fall down his cheek. He wiped it with his hand and wondered what caused it. Was he so moved by the scene’s beauty? Or was there another cause for his tears?

  As he looked down upon Iturtia, he couldn’t help but think that Gemynd was down there. And probably Numa too. Were they thinking of him? Did Gemynd have remorse over what he’d done? Did they miss Aerie and everything in it as much as he did?

  A bead of sweat made its way from the back of Soman’s scalp all the way down his neck and back making him shiver violently. He was glad to see Archigadh still looked to the north and had not noticed.

  “I have a boar of a decision before me, lad,” Archigadh said. “As the leader of the Zobanite forces, you have some say in it.”

  “You mean, whether or not to go war?” Soman asked, somehow managing to keep his teeth from chattering. The night air was still and the rain had dissipated long ago, but for some reason Soman felt a deep chill that seemed to come from within.

  “Aye,” Archigadh answered. “Would you be ready to go to war?”

  Soman wrinkled his face in confusion. “You saw the soldiers today. We are ready,” he said.

  “I saw an army with the best defensive skills that Todor has ever known,” Archigadh replied. “But war is not won by defense alone. We must also kill the enemy.”

  “We have mastered a great number of attacks,” Soman snapped. “We know that Iturtians are easy to kill once we can reach them. All we need to do is survive their attacks long enough to get close, then we will destroy them. That is why I have focused more on defense. The killing will be easy.”

  Archigadh nodded and Soman saw him close his eyes. “There is so much more to war than you understand, son,” he said. “I was not asking if the forces were ready, I was asking about you. I ask you again, are you ready?”

  Soman tried to go deep inside himself again and access the knot of vengeance that was lodged in his stomach, but he couldn’t find it. He was so very tired and only wanted to return to his soft bed. Still, he knew he must voice what he believed was the right thing to do. “I want to create a new Todor, one that is better than it was before. I want to end The Compact with the Terrenes so they no longer have to serve us. I want to ensure that no Zobanite or Terrene is ever again controlled by an Iturtian. I want there to be a Zobanite on the throne of Todor now and always so that Iturtians never gain power in the land. I believe that war is the only way to have that, so, yes, I am ready for war.”

  Archigadh was silent for several moments. “No one is ever ready for war,” he said quietly. “There is no way to be truly ready.”

  “I am certain we can win,” Soman said, wanting his father to feel as sure as he did.

  “Aye,” Archigadh agreed. “If it is to be war, we will be the victors. It has always ended that way and it always will. They cannot beat our numbers. But is the cost worth it? You will see your brothers and sisters slain before your eyes. You will kill some of them by your own hand, powerless against Iturtian mind tricks. Or they may kill you. And what of your friendship with Gemynd? You are angry with him now, but have you truly considered it? When you face him on the battlefield, will you be able to look into his eyes and drive a blade through his heart?”

  The image his father described seemed to come to life in Soman’s mind and he felt his whole body turn to stone. “Molly said that Gemynd is not to blame for what happened to Aerie. That Golath was responsible for all of it,” he said quickly, surprising even himself with his immediate defense of Gemynd.

  “It does not matter,” Archigadh replied, his tone almost sorrowful. “If we go to war, they must both be destroyed.”

  Soman sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Still, war is the right thing to do. What choice do we have? At the very least, the people will demand that Gemynd be punished. They will not simply let him get away with murdering people and destroying an entire village.”

  “We could leave that to the Terrenes. You said you wanted an end to The Compact and, as the wee man reminded us, we are no longer bound by it,” Archigadh said. “We could decide to carry on in peace and not have to face the deaths of our kin, our children. We could separate ourselves from Todor entirely. We could forget the name Iturtia once and for all.”

  Soman looked out again across Iturtia and wondered if Gemynd was having a similar conversation with his father. Were they debating the merits of peace over war? Soman shook his head. In his gut he knew that Gemynd and Golath had already made their decision. They would be readying for war.

  Suddenly Archigadh straightened and sniffed the air. “Who’s there?” he growled low in warning.

  “It is just I,” came a familiar voice from the darkness. “Keeper Sam.”

  Soman locked eyes with Archigadh, both of them wondering what the Keeper was doing there and how such a small man could have reached the top of Zoban Mountain.

  “How did you get up here?” Archigadh asked, voicing their concerns.

  “I climbed,” the Keeper replied as he walked up to them, panting heavily. “Ever since I first heard of it, I’ve wanted to see the top of Zoban Mountain. So I set out as soon as we arrived and here I am at last.”

  Archigadh narrowed his eyes. “You are a most peculiar creature and I am not certain that I trust you,” he said bluntly.

  Keeper Sam laughed softly but otherwise ignored Archigadh’s comment. He walked a few steps forward and looked out over the edge at the desert below. “Spectacular,” he said after several moments of silence.

  Soman thought he felt the mountaintop sway beneath his feet and he realized he was beginning to fall. “I feel like sitting,” he said quickly just as his backside came down on the ground.

  “I’ll join you. I haven’t exerted my body to that extent in quite some time,” Keeper Sam said and sat down next to Soman. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and I would like to add something, if you’ll permit me.”

  “It was a private discussion and many men have died for overhearing conversations not meant for them,” Archigadh snarled.

  “You have my word as a Keeper that I will tell no one of what I heard,” Sam assured.

  “See that you don’t,” Archigadh replied, seeming to let Sam go unpunished. But Soman would not be surprised if he learned of Keeper Sam’s mysterious disappearance sometime in the near future.

  “It is true that you are no longer bound by The Compact, but I encourage you to really think about what this means. If you choose to sever your agreement with the Terrenes, they will no longer serve you in the way you’ve become accustomed,” Sam carried on, oblivious to Archigadh’s threats. “Perhaps The Compact is the best arrangement for Zobanites and Terrenes. Then again, perhaps it is not.”

  “Perhaps you will live another day,” Archigadh said and even in the dark, Soman could see the warnin
g gleam in his eyes. “Then, again, perhaps you will not.”

  Suddenly Soman felt his tongue swell within his mouth. “Have you any water?” he tried to ask, though he wasn’t sure if the words came out.

  Archigadh dropped to his knee beside Soman and pressed his hand against Soman’s forehead. “Son, you are fevered,” he said with alarm.

  “It is just the grief,” Soman tried to explain. “It will pass.”

  “We must get you to a healer,” Archigadh said, though his voice sounded strangely far away. “This is more than grief. Zobanites do not fall ill. Something is terribly wrong.”

  Numa

  “Wake up,” Numa heard the persistent words in her mind for the hundredth time. The relentless nudging against her brain finally became more than she could ignore.

  “I am not asleep,” she groaned aloud in response, not daring to open the door for psychspeak with this stranger crouched beside her.

  “Your eyes are closed,” the woman replied in a whisper. “You must forgive me. I have never seen an Empyrean before and I assumed if your eyes were closed then you must be asleep.”

  Numa made no response and continued to lie still with her eyes closed. She tried to focus all her attention on her breathing. One breath in. One breath out. But her focus never remained there for long as her mind was continually consumed by visions of Aerie. The sharp screams of the people still echoed in her ears, the acrid smell of smoke still scraped at the inside of her nose, and before her eyes she watched the Baldaquin tree fall time and time again.

  “Are you ill?” the woman asked. “Do Empyrean’s experience illness?”

  Numa sighed and opened her eyes. She was lying on a thin bedsack in the corner of a dark room. An oil lamp on a small table against the opposite wall provided the only light in the room, but it was enough for Numa to see that the walls were made of the same rock as every other room in Iturtia. Numa wondered how anyone could live in such conditions. No sunlight, no plant life, no music, no laughter. Just granite walls and darkness, and the stagnant air forever ripe with tension. It was enough to make anyone succumb to madness.