And death smelled like a barn. Its downy warmth scattered as the door blew open. Seed husks, fine hay, and spearbird feed scattered across the floor. September 6th nearly tripped on a large chunk of quartz as she stepped in. “Ever the neat sleeper.”
“What is it?” December 11th croaked.
“Our final piece, it’s here.”
“He’s near?”
“Yes.”
December 11th looked out the window. His eyes had red indentations around them as he peeled off the goggles, glued to his skin with grime and sweat. He sniffed. The aviary was extremely dusty. It made no sense to Hazahnahkah to sleep here, but the man lived as stubborn as he fought. He waited for the spearbirds to return before gathering his packages to send them out again. The next two hours after that were spent rummaging through a forest two fields over. Nestled between where the sand met a creek, December 11th and September 6th found a claw. Pink and fleshy sinew fibers were still attached to it, partly petrified.
“Tiger’s talon,” September 6th said. “I’ll look further. There may be more.”
Talon? Tiger’s had claws, not talons.
A cruel smile spread over December 11th’s face. “He’s hurting. Good.” He turned to September 6th. “Let’s say we use The Sword’s Sister on our father by the morrow.”
For the first time ever, September 6th looked uneasy. She crossed her arms as if to protect herself from something in the air, although it almost certainly failed. “So soon?”
“Yurreth is powerful, and with this we secure our hunt.”
Hazahnahkah had no idea what was transpiring. However, he soon discovered why his Third Terror had failed to repair their tower fully. December 11th took the tiger’s talon to the lowest floor of The Tower—a mirror chamber, which was cracked. Immediately Hazahnahkah could sense this glass was not natural. It stretched on forever, like a world falling into itself, but even more than that it seemed to move on its own apart from this one.
“Palamad tinkered with the tiller. The mirror is also functional. We should be ready for any rambletide leyline,” September 6th said. “All Orphanspawn are accounted for.”
“Fantastic,” December 11th stood on the mirror, but spoke to the sword reflecting it. “Sword, do you want to see Ysan? Behave yourself and you shall.”
Hazahnahkah lost many wielders. He wasn’t going to subjugate his moral compass just for that. Whatever December 11th was about to do, it would probably be wrong. He changed his sheen so that it was no longer reflective. This was a means to communicate that he did not accept the deal, however nobody noticed this—or cared.
And with that, December 11th dropped the tiger’s talon onto the glass—but instead of ringing—it passed through. The Tower groaned, then with a slight shift, all was quiet. December 11th picked up the tiger’s talon which had somehow returned to the room. When they opened The Tower’s doors the Leviathan Sky was now full with fire and madness. A host of rabid creatures swelled the storm, caught in its fury as they swam to other lands. Islands burned. Continents fell from far-off skies. Hazahnahkah held his breath. He could only hear things crumble. Bird’s nests. Tree kingdoms. Eons of craftsmanship from the artisans of snowfall and erosion, from inertia and probability. Such beautiful pieces of art, annihilated, and December 11th strode out of The Tower as if it was a wonderful day. Why, to Hazahnahkah it was a sunset at the end of the world.
But the world already seemed over. The human civilization The Tower had arrived at was not better off than the realms above it. Hungry children and sickly elders. Most rooftops, streets, and carriages were in an incredibly dilapidated state. The air was dry, sooty with the smell of cinder. Two children came running into December 11th as if they’d known right where The Tower would arrive.
They shouted, whined, and sang a single word.
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“Daaaaaaaaad!”
Thezca and Yoronsu were their names. December 11th treated them tenderly, as he would have with any of the youngest siblings like March 8th or October 1st. With how much the man ranted and raved in the aviary about his father Bankanzaku and the end of his bloodline, Hazahnahkah was most surprised that he had kids at all. It seemed like a direct contradiction to his desires. The children must have been waiting quite awhile, and while it should have warmed Hazahnahkah’s steel sword heart, it did not. Committing evils for a good cause was never a just act, and an end was never greater than the means to reach it. He saw no father in December 11th. He saw a murderer, a liar, and a thief.
And apparently, something even worse than all of those combined.
In the cage, on a wagon, covered by ragged tarp and leather, was a girl inside a cage. Hazahnahkah could only perceive her feet. Nails curling from their own length, skin cracked by desiccation, what should have been pink made black with ash.
This filled the sword with fury. But he could not kill December 11th. Not unless he killed everyone bound to him through September 6th too. He tried to think of a way, but he fundamentally did not understand what a “Ramble” was—and so he had no method of using his Three Terrors to undo it. He focused on all the conversations throughout the village for the rest of the month, even those beyond December 11th, but could gather nothing by the end of any of them. No one here spoke of Rambles, because everyone here knew what they were.
There were, however, many conversations in secret.
Many in the village and The Tower snuck off to a cave in the hinterlands often. December 11th always led them. A crowd of the worn, the sickly, and the injured—elders, advisers, leaders.
“Balbarus wants you executed,” an old woman said slowly.
“I figured,” December 11th said back, aloof. He leaned forward. “That’s why we came.”
“You don’t honestly think you can take your children from here and live.”
“I never planned to live.”
“December!” the woman almost shouted. “We need you alive! We need you elsewhere! The conditions here worsen by the hour. You know how Yurreth likes her despots, desperate. Balbarus is practically frothing at the mouth. He’s blood hungry—”
“We know.” December 11th’s hand tightened around Hazahnahkah. “They’ve already been looking for me. I’m as eager to see them as they are me.”
The woman looked at Hazahnahkah. Her mouth hovered, ajar. “Have some sense! Even if you beat Balbarus you’ll get us all killed! Yurreth is a Rapscallion!”
“So is the sword!”
At that, everyone erupted with one another. It was all cursing and offhand remarks. Nobody was willing to listen to anyone but themselves. Some wanted to fight this “Yurreth”, others wanted to actually leave the region using The Tower. A rare few had subjected themselves to the idea Yurreth could pursue them anywhere, no matter how infertile the region, and decided it was best to pursue an alliance instead. December 11th kept them together in only one way: by uniting them against him.
“My plan is to skip the canon fodder. I’ll cull Yurreth myself with sword and sister blade.”
“Hazahnakah,” September 6th whispered.
It was the first time the sword had heard anyone call his name. September 6th’s eyes narrowed onto Wilchick like two gleaming knives. She leaned in with a pulsing question, suspicious with a synthesis of her own disbelief and… perhaps something else.
“You actually found The Sword’s Sister? Since when?”
“Balbarus has her. I plan to steal her back. We’ll bring The Fawn Cities to heel before Yurreth can, we’ll fortify them, we’ll prepare… Once we have Hazahnahkah.”
What.
But they already had Hazahnahkah. The sword blanked. December 11th was deeply confused. They all were. Hazahnahkah was still processing that he had a sister, but now it seems people had mistaken his name for hers? While it was true none of them had ever said Hazahnahkah’s name before—the Orphanspawn of The Tower had seemed rather well informed up until this point. Now it seemed they were just plain lost. Maybe this was all just rumor and gossip. Maybe Hazahnahkah had no sister at all. Nobody like him. Nobody to speak to. Nobody to share with.
A great pain reverberated throughout Hazahnahkah at this possibility—and it was doubly disheartening because it was a pain he never knew he could have—a reality he’d never even wondered about—a sister.
However, all of the Orphanspawn were now in incredible danger. Their entire plan was based on misinformation. And this was not a good thing. Not anymore. Hazahnahkah would have normally welcomed December 11th into the arms of confusion and failure, but now it seemed there was a reason for this madness, and it shared the name with that thing all those in the village feared—that name whispered in dark secret and horror.
Yurreth.
There were more people in cages, not just the child earlier. People of all shapes, colors, and backgrounds. They were always shipped off to that same name.
Yurreth.
Then there were the warlords who oversaw each building, they nodded to the falconers and paladins who came for the delivery. Regret was in their eyes, a desire to atone, but there was the name that always stopped their hearts halfway to beating.
Yurreth.
But bravery came from strange places. A measly old man, frail and hunched, who walked with a cane and coughed with every other step. He mocked Yurreth constantly. He seemed annoyed by the woman, rather than suppressed by her. He sat with a smile, watching the caged girl play with those outside: Thezca, Yoronsu, June 33rd, March 8th, and October 1st. All of December 11th’s children. It would have been touching, if it weren’t for December 11th’s chilling instructions. They were going to kidnap that girl, and she was clearly too important to give to Yurreth, and too important to be left alive if lost. Whatever anyone in this village was planning, it wasn’t anything good.
Sci-fi ? Telepathy ? Psychics
The technocracy will fall. And my powers started it all. Oops.
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