THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  When the light faded, Solvanel heard someone gasping for air.

  He lowered his arm and saw him lying on the splintered wood.

  Charred flesh—melted across the arms and chest. A face unrecognizable—something about a nose and a mouth and ash baked into the skin. Only a sister would love, if she were here. Only a father would spit on with love all the same.

  He might have been a handsome man under the heavens.

  A dashing healer who upheld justice, with a laugh that went ‘Ha-Ha’!

  He was blonde-haired and green-eyed—not much unlike a certain shepherd who couldn’t stomach the sight. But he abandoned these non-existent beauties when his genius fell short.

  The doctor’s apprentice, Cedrick Goodhall.

  Exiled from the village after poisoning his sister with a cure.

  [There is no such thing as a cure-all, Cedrick. Some things, you have to live with.]

  And some things, you have to kill outright.

  Cedrick Goodhall—as he had fallen at the forest's edge, before he’d set foot in the Forsaken Land of Genesis. Before the Beauty had claimed him. His flame hung on to this world, but the fire had long since consumed him.

  “How come guys like us always make it to the end?” The wastrel mused. He stood over the dying mercenary with the instrument in his remaining arm. Whether merciful or merciless, he was going to kill him again with his own weapon.

  A single tear rolled down the mercenary’s visage. “The two of us are nothing alike.”

  The gaps between their breaths were widening. “I wish I could say the same thing.”

  As the blade went up, the Black Hand accepted his fate.

  It was then that his blurred vision found a figure standing behind the executioner. And he swallowed his tears of bitter regret. And he bit his molten lip. And he wept with tears of relief, instead.

  Cedrick Goodhall whispered through his ash-caked lungs. “You came.”

  Solvanel shook his head. “No.”

  “Yes, you did! You came because I asked you to! I asked you to come here, and you did!”

  Saint raised an eyebrow. “Who is he talking about?”

  “No one,” responded Solvanel, through gritted teeth. He was frantic. Hallucinating—the heat of the spirit no longer sufficient to warm the mind.

  “You weren’t there when they threw me out of the village, but I saw you in the plains with that rock!” He shouted because he couldn’t hear himself. And he shouted because he wanted everyone to hear his voice. “You were carrying that rock!”

  “You were carrying that rock…” His voice trailed off.

  Then returned, almost inaudibly. “And you forgave me.”

  His words were spoken to a memory. “I asked if that meant I could come back to the village. I’d even help you carry that rock. But you said no and not to touch it because my hands weren’t clean anymore. They were black.”

  “I tried to explain what happened, but you said there was no need because you knew this was going to happen. Because you’re the one who picked out my name—Cedrick.”

  His ember stopped trying to spark, dwindling slowly as he gazed into the sky. At a comet tearing through the expanse. “Oedipus—the pervert who assaulted his own kin. Wilhelm—the defender of his own sick interests. Cynzen Sula—the moniker of the slaughterer’s cult. Albane—who ate his brother’s fire in the womb; bane of the fox’s existence—Albus. And then me, after the man who poisoned your grandson—Cedrick Cessaire. You told me that if I found them, then one day, you’d come find me!”

  “And you came.”

  “She did not!” Solvanel denied.

  “You came!” The mercenary was back to shouting again—denial of far greater strength. “O’ Lightbringer. I have nothing more to want of this world. For the heavens have eyes and they have seen me! Yea’, though my hands were destined to be black, my feet to walk among slaughterers and abusers, you told me that I, Cedrick Césaire Goodhall, would be fine. Everything would be fine. You promised!”

  The shepherd’s body turned cold, accompanied by a vicious throbbing in the mind and chest. Those words settled in the stomach, pushing bile up into the throat.

  “Hey, kid,” Saint asked. “How old was this guy when he was exiled, again?”

  “I…” Solvanel held onto the railing for stability, eyes closed, vision swimming. “It was on his little sister’s birthday. Willia was three, so he would have been thirteen.”

  Saint Myles chuckled dryly.

  “Oh, yes, Willia. Speaking of the little troublemaker. Is she sleeping?”

  Stunned into silence, the young men exchanged a glance.

  “Don’t say you forgot, O’ Lightbringer. You, of all people, shouldn’t have forgotten to pick her up.”

  “Take her from where?” Saint asked. “Did you wanna see the skeleton?”

  The mercenary lifted his head, looking around frantically. “No. No. Then this isn’t fine…” But his little sister was nowhere to be found. Cedrick lay back down and returned to the comforting memory. “There must have been a misunderstanding, O’ Lightbringer. It can’t be fine if I never see her again. How can it be fine if she’s not here?”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “You promised us a second chance,” muttered the Black Hand. Devoid of anger. Of pain. And utterly bankrupt of awareness. “How can it be fine if we only get one cha-”

  “Beats me.” Saint brought down the axe, splitting the ember in two.

  He pushed the body over the edge of the steps. It thudded down to the bottom, a descent into a lightless hell. It was then that Cedrick Goodhall and hopefully Beauty of the Feast died, leaving only the memory of brightness and the echo of a scream that never found voice.

  Saint staggered, clutching his side.

  Blood seeped between his fingers where the vortex had ripped out his fingernails. He caught himself against a deformed pillar, splinters digging into his palm. Breath came in ragged gasps that tasted of copper.

  Solvanel dropped his crook, scrambling toward him. "You're hurt—"

  "The horde," Saint cut him off. "Still coming?"

  The boy's wrapped gaze turned toward the depths. He’d hoped the monster’s demise would turn away its hungry guests. "Slower now, but yes.”

  “And the comet,” he asked. “How long till it hits?”

  "Less than a day."

  Saint's laugh ended in a cough that brought blood to his lips. "No time for another hold up, then." He pushed himself upright, swaying. "You go on ahead with the others. I'll draw them off."

  "What? No, you can't—"

  “Look at me, kid. I thought it would be obvious.” Saint coughed.

  Solvanel stepped back.

  Tendrils of purple-green infection were wreaking havoc in his body, rapidly approaching his breath.

  “But you cut off your arm!”

  "I hesitated." He flexed his fingers, watching them move. Black veins crawled beneath the skin, threading toward his chest like determined roots. Most of them were already past the collarbone. "Guess I liked that arm more than I thought.”

  “Wait, the silver!” Solvanel reached into his pocket.

  Saint retreated several steps. “Hold on, kid. What d’you expect me to do? Stuff it down my throat? I may not be a shade, but I’m not lasting any longer if that kind of power goes inside me.”

  "Then I'll fight with you." The boy stepped forward, crook raised. "We can hold them off together—"

  "With what?" Saint gestured at the boy's crook. "That stick? Against hundreds of those things," He shook his head. "Black Hand will take me before long anyway, kiddo. I'm a dead man walking. At least let me feel some nostalgia on the way out."

  Solvanel's hands tightened around his crook until his knuckles went white. “Let me…”

  “I already told you. No.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And a coward.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And a swindler,” the shepherd hissed. “That’s what you are. A lying, idiot, coward who’s a drunkard bitch swindler. You allowed yourself to be poisoned so you’d be a lost cause. How long have you been planning this?”

  “Wasn’t much of a plan, really,” he admitted. “These days, I like to just go with the flow.”

  The sound of the horde grew louder. Footsteps. Thousands getting closer.

  Solvanel didn't move. "There has to be another way."

  Saint sighed. “Hey, kid,” he said with a different tone of voice. “Come here for a sec, will you?"

  “Will you listen to me if I do?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  Wait a minute. Wasn’t this far too easy?

  “Of course I will,” he said, bearing mischief in his grin. “Saint’s honour.”

  “…Okay.”

  Solvanel approached the withering flame while formulating this speech.

  ‘Sir Saint, despite your shortcomings, of which there are many, you have proven yourself time and time again. You are knowledgeable. Experienced. A good fighter. And you care about this world just as much as you deny it. So, if you aren’t good enough to be a pillar, then who else?’

  “May I begin?” He asked impatiently.

  “One sec.” The wastrel threw his axe out of the perch. A seemingly random destination on the opposite side of the kingdom. “Take it away.”

  Solvanel cleared his throat. “Sir Saint. Despite your shortcomings, of which there are many, you have proven yourself time and time-”

  “Wait a sec. Sun isn’t hitting you right.”

  He grabbed the little shepherd’s shoulder and positioned him. Unbeknownst to him, his back had been turned to the narrow stairway. “Go on.”

  “I, the shepherd, Solvanel, wish to declare you the first of my dogs. ‘Dog’ not meaning a subservient pet, but man’s best friend. And together, we will cleanse this world of evil. I, as the shining knight. And you, being there also. Do you accept?”

  “Hm. What’s in it for me?”

  And so, it began.

  Seven or eight minutes of the most painful exchange Solvanel had ever had the displeasure of taking part in. Saint Myles requested several minutes to think, questioning the definition of his every word, bringing them back to points they’d already agreed on, just for him to ask for another explanation. All this, with the justification that, ‘A pup’s gotta know what he’s getting into.’

  But finally. Finally. They came to an agreement.

  “Sure. We’ll shake on it.”

  Solvanel frowned. After the speech he’d just given, how lacklustre.

  But since there weren’t explicit instructions on how to deem a pillar, he blindly extended his hand, expecting a firm grip to meet him halfway.

  Instead, the wastrel patted him on the shoulder and whispered close to his cheek. “You know, this would be a lot better if you could see the look on my face.”

  Solvanel’s heart skipped a beat. “Pardon?”

  “Oh well.”

  Saint pushed.

  Solvanel had no reason to guard.

  “Coward!” He tumbled down the staircase and fell through the hole in the side of the watchtower. His stomach lurched as gravity seized him. Wind toyed with his bloody robes.

  Solvanel cursed his own folly while wracking his brain for a chance at survival.

  ‘The Blue Scarab’s Husk!’

  Could he create a barrier to catch him? No. It would be like hitting the ground early.

  He saw the party closing in on the watchtower.

  Their number flooded the streets—those who perished inside the treasury. Clumsy ambling that slowed their advancement.

  Through the chaos, a flicker of breath caught his attention. Moving fast across the ground below.

  The inferno bounded through the empty streets, head raised. Chasing a glint that rotated in the air—the axe that Saint threw from the perch.

  Wide eyes met as the axe cut by the ear.

  “What da… brother?”

  The inferno planted one boot and launched itself to meet him halfway. Solvanel twisted in the air, reaching down. The red giant ignored his attempt at keeping his pride and locked him close to the chest.

  “Brother!”