Chapter Nine Elician #2
They are not. The gates are open, and standing before them is a line of soldiers dressed in Alelunen silver and black.
Behind them, Elician can see corpses. Some in piles, some simply lying on the ground – discarded and ignored, staining the hot earth with blood.
Why are there soldiers outside the gates?
Elician thinks numbly. He has defended the west bank of the Bask River for years.
He knows the size of the army required to hold it.
He brought all of the reserves from Himmelsheim, only a quarter of the fighting strength of their standing army but more than enough for what he hoped would be a fight he and Cat could end on their own.
And yet.
The Alelunen force standing across from him is too small. They are arranged poorly, far from the rigid lines he remembers from years of warfare. There are maybe only a few dozen soldiers, weapons at their sides, postures lax and loose. Disinclined to engage, yet standing in the way nonetheless.
Elician takes up a banner signalling a desire for a parlay.
Lio hands it to him, leaning in to tell him only to be careful.
It is customary to treat with the enemy to discuss terms and demands.
Elician doubts the conversation will go well, but he presses on despite that.
His relief force stays at his back, uncomfortable but wary. Cat rides at his side.
A horn blows. Elician does not see from where.
Beyond the wall, certainly. Slowly, the wall of soldiers breaks before the gates of the city, clearing a path forward.
But at the other end of the path, there is movement.
People. Men and women. Barely clothed, skin bare.
Survivors? For one brief moment, Elician hopes.
But the people draw closer. They move awkwardly, limbs uncoordinated and each face stained with a violent black scar.
For years the Reapers of Alelune have been kept in cells below-ground. They walk poorly. Their few days or weeks of mobility have not given them any form of grace. But they respond to the orders that they have been given, and they leave Altas. First at a walk…and then a run.
They charge forward, hands outstretched and mouths turned into gaping maws.
Their teeth snap and clack loud enough to be heard over their hurried steps.
Elician’s heart thunders behind his ribs.
He rests one hand on the hilt of his sword, habit overriding every plan and thought in his head.
Cat reaches across the gap between their horses.
He rests his palm on Elician’s arm, squeezing just enough to make Elician look at him, uncertain and hopeful at once.
Then Cat raises his left hand. He closes his eyes, and Elician feels something shift in the air.
It is not like when he touches Cat’s skin.
It does not feel like the tingling sensation of possibility that lingers between them each time their bodies connect.
This, now, feels something like the desperate pull of opposite magnets trying to connect while also repelling each other at the same time.
He’s overwhelmed by an overpowering need to chase after the strength that lies in the very pores of Cat’s body mixed with a hearty sense of their similarity.
Then, Elician does not feel the magnetic sensation that exists between the pull of any Giver and Reaper. Instead, he tastes it in the air.
The smell of ozone spasms across the ground between Elician, Cat and the Reapers.
The hair on the back of Elician’s neck stands on end.
He expects to see electricity start to crackle between them, but nothing catches his eye.
The Reapers keep advancing. Cat keeps his hand right where it is.
The pressure builds. The taste is undeniable: sharp and tangy.
It sours and turns bitter soon after. Elician’s nose hairs crinkle as the air thickens.
Tears press his eyes without conscious awareness.
His body trembles and almost pulls away from Cat’s touch on mere instinct alone.
Cat’s fingers turn vicious on his wrist. He cannot squirm away.
Not even when the Reapers are mere paces from them both. But then, just as the first man crosses the threshold of the invisible storm that lies between them all, Elician feels no desire to leave. The first man drops to his knees before them, eyes wide and staring up at Cat as if he is a god.
The rest break the line. They make it no farther than their companion.
Each collapses to their knees. Some keel over, their hands bracing them on the ground.
Their skin shifts and morphs along with their flesh.
Their faces turn emaciated, then fill out over and over again.
Their hair falls from their scalps. Their stomachs cave inwards and then start to protrude.
They cough, gagging up blood and bile that stains the ground before them.
Then they heal. They die and revive in endless cycles, caught in the storm of Cat’s will.
‘My name is Alest, son of Alenée,’ he says.
‘I am a Reaper, and I am your king. And you will listen to me.’ He drops his hand, and the sharp bitterness of the air blows away on a swift breeze.
Perhaps a hundred Reapers lie sprawled at Cat’s feet, fewer than reported by their messenger but still enough to cause unending harm.
They stare at Cat with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
Elician flits his gaze from face to face.
He recognizes none of them. But he doesn’t have time to analyse for long.
The moment Cat has finished speaking, the regular Alelunen soldiers break from their tattered formation by the walls, weapons raised, prepared to run.
Cat sits slumped in his saddle, warily watching all the rest. But he turns to Elician. ‘I can do this.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
And it is all the permission Elician needs.
Elician stares past the advancing army, trusts that Cat can hold them at bay. Then, narrows his gaze to focus on the masses beyond – killed in a conquest for no reason or purpose save violence and hatred.
He breathes deep.
Come back, he thinks. Now is not your time.
The soldiers start their charge. Cat holds his hand up.
Elician closes his eyes. He reaches out with a power he has always known. He summons every scrap of energy he has within him and he lets himself believe:
Now is not your time.
And through the gates, the corpses begin to move.