The band of Mordis Eyes we were following had made camp. We came upon their stakeout in the night. It was sobering to think of them as men with human needs and wants. They weren’t the white-masked shadow creatures I had seen in my dreams just that morning. They were camped in the middle of a browned, grassy plain. Their cream colored tents and intimate campfires kept at bay the darkness I knew they were capable of. There were twelve tents in all, with one large tent at the center. There were flat, worn areas around the larger tent and the people that came went out of it were mostly women. I didn’t know what to make of this yet.350Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgPCiOmYV44
Did they really worship Mordis, God of Death? It would only make sense, but somehow it still felt wrong. Mordis may have been the God of Mortality and Man, but I’d never known Him to associate Himself with cruelty or murder. Death was meant to be a natural process--not something you forcibly ushered people towards. Death was simply a different kind of beginning… not an event ensconced in finality.
And what was this mention of The Leaving? Who was the smokey man in the peaked cap? Not Mordis. A shade of Mordis’ own creation, or some other thing? Where was He now? What were the rumors surrounding my return from The Cradle? Who did the Mordis Eyes really think I was? What had Ethis thought?
Looking through Ethis’ binoculars, I wished I could remember more. Surely the answers to all my questions were locked up in my memories somewhere, somehow...
Djince tapped my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. He looked toward the camp then and put a finger to his lips. Quiet. I understood that command all too well.
The both of us made our way through the tall grasses. I was practically invisible, but I could see Djince’s big, dumb, hunched shoulders even over the stalks. Stealth was not something he was built for, but I could hardly hear him in the rushes, so what did I know? I wasn’t some seasoned assassin--I was a glorified librarian who remembered being an assassin. At least he’d opted out of wearing his helmet--He never figured out how to turn the little red light off.
I could see the shape of a man on the outside of the perimeter. One of the four guards. Djince rose silently out of the grass and cupped a huge hand over the man’s mouth. He pulled him into the grass without a struggle and took a knife from his neck, wiping it on the stalks as he moved further into the camp. Killing didn’t have him missing any beats.
“Was that necessary?” I breathed as I came up beside him. He glared at me to keep quiet, waving a hand like we’d address things later. We wouldn’t, but it was a nice gesture. I grabbed his elbow before he could take off again and he glowered at me. I said to him, “Knock them out. Killing is an invitation for retaliation.” I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head before he gave me a slow nod. Then I smiled and said, “But if they strike first… well…” He was quicker to agree with me on that term.
We split up. Djicne would recover the letters for the House of Veris since I had no idea what to look for. I would hunt down the man in the peaked cap. It was a long shot, my venture, but I had a hunch. He’d called himself the villain, and my trial a story… It would only make sense that he would be here, this logical next step. In hindsight, perhaps I was giving him more credit than he was due. Or maybe I thought Him short sighted.
After evading the watch of several differently robed individuals, I toured down causeway and corridor painted as tent and hovel. These people were nomadic and wandering. Their whole infrastructure was based off of cheaply made, leather lean-tos and hay covered longhouses. Even the horses they owned were barely contained; tethered loosely on dug-in pine posts and the low hanging branches of nearby, rotted brush and vegetation. The roving guards and other men, at various stages of intoxication, were unattending and relaxed at their stations.
I looked through a handful of different tents, but all of them spoke of a spartan uniformity. One of these tents is not like the other ones, was the silent sing-song in the back of my head.
Curiosity no longer containable, I stealthily made my way to the large tent at the center of the encampment. By then, the last dredges of sunlight were long gone and the moon was out, in all its waning glory. There were only three guards wandering about camp with torches and all the campfires were beginning to die down now that they weren’t being tended. A hush fell over the camp as its merry-makers of the night devolved into its drunken preachers. Those that patrolled the darkness wore their masks atop their heads and spoke in low, entreating voices.
I thought of Ethis wanting to celebrate the death of the three boyos. Could the Eyes have been celebrating for the very same reason--drinking to yet another day survived, even if it cost someone else their survival?
I went around to the back side of the large longhouse and flipped up the canvas, pulling out a stake and setting it aside. I ducked beneath it and stopped as the smell of leather and petunias hit me. My human instincts wanted me to get out of the tent, but what remained of my divine senses told me there was nothing to fear.
There were a dozen children laid out on bedrolls. They were all shaven headed and gaunt in the face. Some of them were further along in their illness than others. They all varied in age and appearance. The smallest couldn’t have been older than two or three and was resting on their stomach. The oldest could have passed for thirteen. It was difficult to tell the age of others, their bodies so atrophied--resembling tiny senior citizens rather than tiny children. The sickness made their skin look wrinkled and dehydrated; made it hang from their bodies like wet, peach-colored drapes. Someone let out a low moan and another child answered the pained call.
“Time Eater,” I whispered in the dim, lantern-lit long tent. “In the flesh--”
“God?” a woman’s voice made me turn around; made my hand go to my revolver. She was wearing a blood red oversuit, her long black hair trussed up in a swirling mass atop her head. “I sensed you were not one of my own creations,” she said. Then she frowned. “Not… fully.”
There was a small boy at her feet, but his ‘phage was only manifested as hair loss and a leathery patch on one side of his face. He was watching me, one hand in the woman’s own, the other stuck to his mouth as he sucked his thumb.
She smiled at me and it was a warm, inviting thing. She was beautiful in a homely way. She held out her other hand and said, “I’m not concerned with raising the alarm, if that’s what you’re worried over. Come. I’ll make you some tea. You would like that.”
I would like that. I frowned, looking about the room. “They’re sick with the disease that ended the world--the chronophage,” I said quietly.
“They are,” the woman said, still holding out her hand to me. “We’re making them comfortable… Only one of these children will survive, but we must give each of them a fighting chance.”350Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH3fJxg5dew
“Only one… There’re so many,” I whispered.
She nodded, pain in her eyes. “Come. Please. You must tell me who you are. I will tell you who I am. You must have come seeking some answers, yes?”
I looked at her sharply. “I was looking for a man made of smoke.”
She nodded and said, “You were looking for Mordis. He’s not here.”
“That was Mordis?” I shook my head. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be him. Somehow it didn’t feel… I stated numbly, “He’s changed. Where is he?”
“Of course he’s changed. We all have. Come. Let us talk.”350Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMELqKKktjK
