Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One (4 page)

The next few hours were filled with tales on both sides. Rogen decided the boy was open and honest, albeit a bit socially inept, but he felt Cite had a good heart. Cite decided the Gods must have directed him here and this man must have power to help in the coming events. They watched and measured each other as they spoke, and when Rogen left, he knew this human boy, well really a man, was the one that he had been told about years ago. Not a great savior, but one who could help stop something horrible from happening. Something the boy had glimpsed in his dreams would help them.

As Cite sat alone, eating, after Rogen left, he reviewed the past few hours in his head. He was stunned to learn about new abilities that had been witnessed by others but remained unremembered by him. Cite did not bother to refute or deny what the stout man had told him about the arena. Rogen detailed what he had seen, how Cite stopped himself from falling, produced three daggers that didn’t exist and could not be seen by others. He knew it was possible for him to develop more abilities, that of a mind mage, but never expected them to be offensive in nature. Cite’s primary ability has always been passive and subtle, now to see possibly telekinetic and a psionic attack that manifested physically stunned him. He also felt that Rogen was much more than he appeared to be, but something else bothered Cite. Had he read the man’s thoughts? The mage had much to meditate upon if sleep did not claim him soon.

Chapter 2: Secrets in the Shadows

“Angst is for crybabies; revenge is for the motivated.”

Unknown

5854 – Thon – Jordar – Midā

She watched from the roof of the three-story tenement across the alley from ‘The Saucy Wench’, a dive bar that served greasy meat in more ways than one. She watched as the crabs below picked at the dying dog, who struggled to drag its mutilated body from the scavengers. This wasn’t normal behavior. Crabs didn’t attack perfectly healthy predators; it just wasn’t done. Also, the crabs were a sickly green and had a short stalk-like tail jutting out from their rounded carapaces. Things just weren’t normal anymore. But then again, neither was she.

She guessed she wasn’t much different than those weird crabs. She was an anomaly also, something others had never seen, and when they did they thought she wasn’t normal either. In fact, what she was about to do would go against the grain of every cutpurse, back alley thug, and second story man’s professional code. She was about to take down the man who taught her how to be a thief.

Krendal preached honor among thieves, but he sure didn’t practice it. He proved that when he turned her over to a rival gang for ‘whatever purpose they saw fit to use her for’, as well as dropping the bag to the authorities and now wanted posters with her face were popping up all over town. The worst part was that he got away with the score and no exposure. She was nothing more than a patsy. After three years…

She saw the door open in the alley. Most of the crabs ignored it and continued to devour their living meal, tearing chunks from its mangy hide as the dog whimpered. But a dozen crabs rose up on their legs, a hissing noise and steam issuing from rents in their shells. The three men coming out of the bar’s back door kicked at the aberrations, scattering them. One man screamed as three crabs swarmed his leg, pinching and hissing as they did. He pulled a long dirk from a sheath, and while yelling obscenities as his two friends watched and laughed, slashed the crustaceans from his leg.

She knew them all very well. Dylak – the one rubbing his wet crotch where a pincer had been moments before - and Smudge were the flunkies, and her old boss was the third. They were right on time. Criminals should never have such predictable schedules, it was stupid. She also knew where they would be going and had prepared her way to make it easier.

It was raining again, and the temperatures were warmer than they should be for this time of year. She let her coat flare open as she leapt the alley to the bar’s second story rooftop, slipping as she landed. On the rooftops she couldn’t smell the usual aroma of human waste in the street, but the smell of fish was everywhere in Edgewater. She moved faster than her quarry, who stumbled from the drink and other things they had imbibed at The Saucy Wench. She had paid extra to make sure they weren’t at their best. She worked her way across the rooftops, knowing they would be along soon enough. Sliding down a line she had prepared earlier, she landed on the porch of the Oyster’s Pearl, an upscale dive compared to most places in the area.

Entering, she looked around for her contact. The man spotted her, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve, the sign that the men who robbed the man’s employer was coming. He stood, buckling on his sword, and his four companions did the same. She slipped back out the door, knowing they would follow her in a moment. Sauntering to the street, she leaned against a post on the porch of the establishment and waited for her old gang to pass by. The men came out behind her and slipped into the shadows, waiting to spring the trap.

The job they had done went down without a hitch. It was simple once they had found out where the rich fops hid their goods, stolen from the nobles that were their parents and peers. The information was the hard part to get, but she had got it. Men talked a lot when they didn’t have their pants on, and the dandy had been no different. They all had a thing for the youth of the lower class and she had been the bait. She still had the bruises from that information gathering session, but they would heal. It wasn’t the worst she had gotten from a man.

She had learned to deal with certain facts of life since she left the orphanage of Promethene. The priestesses of the goddess of sound and light were kind, but strict, they had taken her in after her family was killed in a fire when she was young, too young to remember. She was safe with them and well fed, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted to love life, not scrub floors and cook for dozens of people. She was not destined to be a scullery maid, or some waitress avoiding the greedy hands of men while giving them their ale with a smile, and that was all she would be if she continued to work in the kitchens. She worked with the chirurgeon and apothecary also, she enjoyed that. The secrets of herbs and powders that could heal or hurt, even make things explode. She devoured the knowledge she gained there, learning all she could every chance she had.

She left the orphanage right about the same time she had the first signs that she was blossoming into a woman. She lived on the street for a while, begging. Merchants would offer her a bed and a meal, but too often they would take more from her than those things were worth. She decided that wouldn’t happen anymore. She dressed as a boy for a while, learning to fight in street gangs. But in time she tired of hiding who she really was, sneaking off to pee alone so no one would find out. She went out on her own.

That was when she met Krendal. He accepted her and offered her protection and training. Anytime she traded her skills, she was compensated in one form or another. She learned stealth and to love the shadows. And secrets. That was her true love, the secrets. She didn’t want to lord them over someone, or trade them for coin, she only wanted to know things that others didn’t. She liked having friends too. Well, they were sort of like friends. You could trust them, but only to a point. Everything was business with Krendal, and his word was a contract. But contracts had loopholes, and she didn’t pay attention on this last job. She didn’t listen when he told her that she would get full credit for the job. It was her own fault for not seeing it coming when he turned on her, and left her to be outcast from the gang, and wanted by the law. One day though, she would have a gang of her own that she could trust. Or, barring that, a gang that she was in charge of and she would write the contracts.

Krendal, Smudge, and Dylak came around the corner, pulling her from her reverie. She smiled and stepped into the street.

“Hello boys,” she said with a smirk. “I’m here to get my cut. Whatever you have on you should be enough.”

The three men stopped. Krendal smiled, the oily smile that she once found so admirable because it meant someone was about to get what they deserved. But now it would be his turn. She looked at his face, the line of the scar running down his cheek showing in the dim light. Smudge looked to his boss, running his hand through his dirty cropped hair, his other hand settling on the dagger on his hip. Dylak brayed a laugh, and drew his wicked dirk, shaking his greasy long hair from his eyes.

“Can I have her after we cut her a bit, Krendal?” Dylak asked, shivering in anticipation.

“Just wait, Dylak. We will see.” Krendal said, his cheek twitching the way it did when he was suspicious. “What are you doing here, girl? You should be running, or hiding in a rat hole somewhere.”

“Running has never been my strong suit,” she answered, “you know that. And as I said, I have come for my cut.”

“You are about to get cut, alright.” Dylak said, stepping towards her.

“Wait!” Krendal ordered.

It was too late. Crossbow quarrels sprouted from Smudge’s chest and Dylak’s throat, and they fell face first into the mud and shit of the street. Krendal crouched and spun, his short sword appearing in his hand. Five forms appeared in the warm mist of a rain, the sellswords, crossbows at the ready as they closed the distance between them and Krendal. Her old boss weighed the odds, looked for an escape, and seeing none, began to talk.

“We can work out a deal here, gentleman,” he said.

“We already have a deal,” the leader of the mercenaries said, “and I think it pays better than anything you can offer.”

“But I can get more for you than…” Krendal went down as one man fired a quarrel into Krendal’s thigh. Another stepped up behind the rogue and hit him in the head with the butt of his crossbow. Krendal fell face first into the mud. The men surrounded him, kicked the thief’s dropped sword away, and tied his hands behind his back. They let the girl through as she approached.

She grabbed her old boss’s hair in a fist and pulled him to his knees. Staring into his eyes, she spoke. “You will remember the name Gruedo until your dying day, which comes to us all sooner or later.”

With a quick motion, blood sprouted from his throat. She released him as he gurgled, choking on his own blood, and he fell back into the mud.

“You said we could have him,” the lead mercenary said, “he isn’t worth as much to us dead. Why did you kill him?”

“No loose ends. Your employers will be just as happy to have his corpse to desecrate,” Gruedo said. “Besides, Smudge is still alive and I am sure they can have their fun with him.” The man nodded and shrugged, showing his indifference. “You remember your part of the deal?”

The man nodded, “We will tell the authorities that you were a pawn and had nothing to do with the robbery of our employers, and were a victim of their sick hungers.”

“Why do you work for them if it disgusts you so much?” Gruedo asked, wiping her blade on the back of her dying boss.

“They pay well.”

“What if you could have their money without having to deal with their perverted needs? Interested?” She asked as she stepped away from Krendal as his legs kicked in his death throes. The mercenary thought for a moment, smiled then nodded. “Good, I will contact you again soon to discuss a plan I have.”

The five men gathered the two dead bodies, and Smudge, loaded them into a wagon that one of the men pulled from an alley and headed into the misting rain. Once they were gone Gruedo gestured to the shadows across the street. A young boy in fine clothes and slave collar came out to meet her.

“Did you see, child?” she asked. The boy nodded.

“You want your freedom?” The boy nodded again. “I can get it for you; I only need you to do one thing for me. Did you see the men that did the killing? I need you to lure their sick employers into an alley for me, where I can discuss business with them. I will be there to protect you, don’t worry.”

The child smiled, and nodded with enthusiasm.

“Always remember,” Gruedo said, “no loose ends.”

Chapter 3: Things Go South

“You have to break a few eggs to shake the foundations of the world.”

Nomed

5854 – Thon – Jordar –Therin

Cite woke to the sound of breaking pottery. As he sat up, he saw a table topple on top of the broken crockery. The whole room shook. They had moved him to a different room with a real bed, which now skittered across the floor as the room shook. He had been in a deep sleep, and had lost his dream when he woke. When he tried to stand, he was thrown against the wall and stumbled into a wardrobe.

The thick candles rolled across the floor, two of them were extinguished, and the third rolling close to the sheet hanging from the bed. Not wanting to lose his only remaining light, Cite staggered toward the lit candle and grabbed it as he was knocked to his knees by the tremors. Crawling and tripping towards the wardrobe, he set the candle on the ground where it would not tip, and pulled down clothes.

The door burst open and Rogen stomped into the room, five men trailing behind him with Sybia, the stern woman who had treated Cite’s wounds, as Cite was tying his second sandal. The Rokairn kept a steady walking pace, rather than running, and the shaking of the building didn’t give him any trouble. He was dressed in black robes and his many belts with the many pouches that Cite had seen him in before. A hammer hung at one hip, a short double-headed axe at the other and a large axe handle was above his right shoulder. He held a walking staff and an extra belt in one hand. He leaned on the stout oak pole and looked Cite over.

“What’s happening?” Cite asked as he finished lacing his sandal.

“No time to explain, son,” answered Rogen. “Suffice to say that your visions, and my fears, may be upon us. We need to go. My people are trained in combat and doing the best they can, but I fear this threat is beyond even their skills.” 

Rogen held out his calloused hand and helped steady Cite and the lad stood. Once the younger man had his feet under him, Rogen passed him the walking staff and the spare belt with pouches and two daggers. “Come. I have supplies packed. We need to get you to a safe place so I may return and secure my city.”

Cite opened his mouth to ask a question, but stopped as he looked at the Rokairn. Rogen’s stance which spoke volumes. Cite had the odd feeling of remembering something he had not known he had forgotten. Bugs.

“Bugs? You have a bug problem?” he asked, confused at the thought that insects could cause the earthquake he had just felt. The men behind Rogen exchanged nervous glances with each other.

“Bit of an understatement really,” Rogen turned and looked up at the boy, “later you will have to explain how you picked that out of my head. Kind of rude, but forgivable, given our current situation.” Rogen guided Cite by the elbow out the door, the entourage parting to let him through. The slave master paused to take a torch from a sconce on the wall. “Carry this. I doubt you see well without it. My advisors have their own. Do not worry about the flame. It is magical and will not burn.”

They moved through the building, dodging falling chunks of rock, and breathing in dust as it rained down around them. The advisors held onto walls and each other to stop themselves from falling. Rogen spoke to them with the authority of a man used to being obeyed, encouraging them. The shorter, but stronger man supported Cite as they moved through the shaking building. Cite picked tidbits of information out of Rogen’s head. Tidbits like which way to go, what corridors would be safest, which would have people, which would be most likely to have spouts of carnivorous insects erupting through the floor.

“What? Man eating hordes of beetles?” Cite shouted over the rumbling, stopping in his tracks. Sybia put a hand on the young man’s shoulder to calm him. Cite blushed as he realized his outburst. It was uncommon for the mind mage’s usual calm and even demeanor to waver as it had so often since he arrived here. They began moving again before Rogen say anything.

Rogen shook his head in disbelief, showing emotion he usually kept hidden under a stony face. “Yes, that is one of the things I have seen, but not everything I have had reported to me.”

The torch flickered, causing shadows to dance across their path. The air smelled dry and dusty. The Rokairn guided Cite up a stone stairway and into another hallway. People dashed about, going in and out of the doors lining the hall. Many had weapons and headed in random directions. It was chaos.

The group ascended a flight of stairs into a kitchen area. Large pots bubbled in cooking alcoves and large blocks of stone covered with wooden cutting boards and cuts of meat dominated the center room. Suspended from the ceiling, iron racks with pots, skillets, and ladles banged together. Rogen led Cite through this room, but not before the smell of rot reached Cite’s nose and made him turn and look again. The meats on the cutting boards were solid brown and glistened in the fire and torchlight instead of the red. They crawled with thousands of roaches. The cauldrons hissed as more creatures dropped from the chimneys. The stench of insects burning in the fires as they swarmed over the sides of the pots permeated the room. A man tried to crush the bugs with a metal tenderizer hammer, only to have hundreds of them climb up his arm for every handful he crushed. Then they were past the room, but the screams of the man followed them as he was overpowered.

Rogen was now pulling Cite along. The younger man’s wound slowed him and Rogen supported him as much as the staff did. Cite saw the door to the outside and doubled his efforts to escape the building. As they came to the door, Cite stopped again. Phaeton muttered something under his breath about the boy and Izreus snickered. It was worse outside. Night still dominated the sky, but the waxing moon gave some light. People covered with bugs ran in all directions. The heavens were streaked with dark swarms of insects. Men stood, armed and armored, attempting to make military formations to combat the invasion, but standard configurations were useless against the sheer number of miniature invaders. Cite watched as men and women went down under black clouds, screaming. People tried to help others, only to have the insects swarm over them as well.

Cite turned back, away from the chaos of death outside. He felt staying inside would be better. Rogen grabbed his arm, and Cite felt the thought from him,
‘Hurry, run,’
but he could not bring himself to go out there. The rumbling of the ground increased as the stone floor inside the room collapsed into a funnel, and a Phaeton slipped into it. The councilor scrambled for the edge, as suddenly the hole began to fill with black glistening movement that briefly brought oil to mind. Then parts broke away and fist-sized beetles began climbing up the man’s legs. Some did not climb, but tore into the flesh of his calves and burrowed into his legs. Blood mixed with the insects below, sending them into frenzy.

Cite reached to help the man without thinking, grabbing his hand as he reached for anything to pull himself out of the hole. Izreus backed away, his face pale with terror. Cite’s hand caught Phaeton’s and he shrieked. His cry became a gurgle as a black chitinous form exited from his open mouth. Cite cried out and tried to release his arm, but the man had clamped on to him with a death grip. As the mind mage backpedaled, pulling away from the hole, the arm tore loose and four of the deadly insects scurried out of the torn end and turned to climb up the limb towards Cite.

An axe suddenly connected to the underside of the amputated forearm, cutting the tendons that held the hand closed, and it dropped to the ground. Rogen grabbed Cite and dragged him outside, his axe still in the Rokairn’s hand, as the creatures swarmed out of the hole. Rogen turned and shoved Izreus backwards into the insects.

“Join your friend who you conspired with to over throw me,” the Rokairn said, “you will be more use to me there than waiting in the shadows with daggers and poisons, you useless fool.”

Rogen pulled a stunned Cite into the night, Sybia and the remaining three advisors following. Outside the nightmare escalated. There were swarms of fireflies the size of cats dodging about; everywhere their glowing abdomens touched they left a deposit of shimmering acid. People died screaming as their hair or faces melted, or an arm burned away from their bodies. Larger beetles the size of wagons burrowed out of the ground. Their mandibles tore people in half and smaller insects swarmed to devour pieces that fell. The ground was alive with movement of deadly insects and small rivers of blood.

Releasing Cite to Sybia’s care, Rogen erupted into a flurry of movement. In one hand was the double bladed hand axe and in the other was his double-headed hammer. Cite followed as best he could, trying not to step on anything that was once human, or that was still moving and trying to bite, sting, or poison him. Rogen danced in and out of the insects, heading straight for the larger ones. His axe sliced cleanly through the antennae of one beast the size of a horse, and his hammer crushing the multifaceted eyes of another. He rolled under one as it reared, neatly slicing its abdomen open, thick white entrails erupting onto the sand, adding to the stench that was thick in the air.

Rogen tore his robe bottom off, and with two quick flips of his wrist, wrapped it around his forearm. He used it to knock swarms of small insects out of the air, crushing them with the flat of his axe against his forearm, or bashing them against a stone wall, or even the hard shell of a larger monster. He fought in a controlled rage, aware of every movement around him, doing his best to kill or disable as many of the horrors as he could as he worked his way out of the desert city. The cool night air helped, and the insects slowed as the chill deepened. 

The people had organized a little, and the few who had any talent for magics began to use it. Wizards tapped the ley lines to bring the temperature down to slow the bugs. They called upon the element of earth to crush the insects; air to conjure whirling dust devils to sweep them away; or fire to rain flaming pellets down on them. Priests called upon the gods to protect themselves and others from the hordes of insects, it did little for the larger ones, but was some help with the smaller ones. Warriors used large shields to crush thousands of insects at a time. Other men gathered oil and sprayed it about, lighting whole areas on fire. Cite saw two familiar figures, gladiators, a slim lithe one with a shaved head and an older man with a staff, go back to back to help defend each other.

Cite tried to do more than just follow behind. His chest wound burned, his legs were weak and his mind was confused as it grabbed at too many thoughts that were being forced through the night by the panicked minds of others. He felt the pain of some, the rage of the warriors, and the small glimmering hope of escape. He realized it was not his feelings or thoughts, but those of the people fighting for their lives that were being projected from all around him. He felt helpless and small. He felt violated as these insect horrors devoured man, woman, and child alike. Some small part of him realized he did not see any chains on these people who were slaves, but he would not fully realize that until later when he went back to look at the nightmarish memories. It was the hope from others that drove him forward. It was hope that came to him again and again. Hope from the people around them as they fought on, inspired by the man he followed.

He was not sure when it happened, but he knew it was there fully when he saw Rogen slip under the charge of what was almost humanoid ant creatures that stood higher than Cite’s knee. The advisor with the shaved head, save for a dark ponytail, charged in to save his master. The insects swarmed over him. The bite of their mandibles caused his flesh to swell, and he began to choke as they cut into flesh. That was when Cite found glowing silver daggers in his hands. Cite pulled away from Sybia and flew at the monsters as he saw Rogen go down under their organized charge. An unseen force threw the beasts back. Cite was upon them, and swung wildly, the creatures went stiff each time he struck at one, and Cite turned away to the next one before the first had fallen to the ground.

Calleus, Taktak, Sybia, and Talidon saw something very different. They saw a madman rush over their fallen leader as the small insects flew back. As the ant creatures charged again, the man in white robes swung his empty fists, and without even touching the creatures, they would fall over dead. One person saw the truth though. Rogen, from his place on the ground, saw the silvery aura burst from Cite and the ant men thrown back as an almost solid wall of force exploded outward. He saw the silver daggers light the night and stab repeatedly, though clumsily, into the triangular heads of the creatures. No one saw Rogen smile.

Rogen was back on his feet yelling for Cite to run again. Yelling for all of his people to run. An invasion was a situation that had been planned for, though one of insects had never been considered. All knew there were places to regroup outside the city. They followed the last command many would ever hear from their leader. They ran.

Rogen walked southeast. The others plodded in silence behind him, Cite leaning heavily on the staff, He almost ran into Rogen as the shorter man stopped. Cite looked up and saw the sun cresting the eastern horizon and dark green leafy ground brush around them. The air was dry and crisp. A few insects could be heard, and a lizard scuttled for shelter in nearby rocks. The rising sun showed a small, capped well with sand bags around it stood in the center of the tiny oasis. Though they had lost Talidon in another attack outside of the city, they had arrived here with a dozen others that had joined them in the night’s march.