CYRUS

“Beware my children the one who speaks with the tongue of a sheep through the teeth of the wolf. ”

Nes Porez, Book of Nir 9-93 (translation)

Chapter 2

The hall of the imperial Senate of Opree was grand. Lavishly carved from marble, the walls and ceiling were decorated with images that told the story of the Empire’s rich two- thousand year history. Colonel Cyrus Mason looked up at the magnificent stained glass dome ceiling towering four stories above him. It depicted the sky gods, the ancients and the old ones looking down from the City in the Stars at Aranut, the mythic hero and first king of the Empire. Written right below the feet of Aranut was “Power is the poison of virtue”, words of warning given to the young king right before they abandoned the mortal world for the heavens, leaving the world to be shaped by humanity. It was the motto of the Vistany, who took direct power from the monarchy and gave democracy to the people. He always enjoyed the stories of the gods and felt it a shame that it was a history each generation tried harder and harder to escape.

Cyrus stood stiff and uncomfortable in his black dress uniform, just outside the Senate floor doors. He didn’t understand why the Senate was suddenly interested with Kyrant. The message he received while in the field gave no information other than he was required to appear before the Senate at this date and this time. A military man, Cyrus was not accustomed to dealing with civilian government and had little patience for politics, or surprises for that matter.

The sharp cracking echo of approaching footsteps crescendoed in the cavernous atrium. Cyrus turned around to see which of the five hallways the sound was coming from, instinctively reaching for where his sidearm was usually holstered. The sound was coming from a small, wiry looking fellow in an ill fitting but expensive suit. The man’s hand trembled as he adjusted his glasses, before extending it out to the Colonel.

“C-Colonel Mason, s-sir, I am Hobert Waller. The Senate sent me to be your legal advisor f-f- for this hearing.”

Cyrus gave the small man a cold stare, his steel blue eyes contrasting against the shadow of his furrowed brow as he thought. Legal advisor? What exactly is this hearing about? With no intentions of returning the friendly gesture, he waited for Hobert to retract his hand.

“And why does the Senate believe I will require a legal advisor?” Cyrus’s eyes narrowed.

Hobert gave off an uncomfortable laugh that thinly disguised his terror. “N-no tricks sir, I was told that this was just a preliminary hearing, just questions. I am here to advise you of your rights.”

“I believe I am already aware of my rights.” Cyrus sneered.

“The law is a complicated thing, Colonel Mason. This is the Empire of the people. It’s the age of reason.” Hobert gave off another nervous chuckle. “One day people like me will be viewed as the defenders of the Empire. Protecting the laws that grant us our freedom. We are not so different, you and I. Only you use your rifle and I use my mind.”

Cyrus cringed at the thought of an army of Hobert Wallers defending the Empire, although, the thought of Hobert Waller pissing himself when faced with the Navat raised his spirits a bit before he entered the Senate floor.

The Senate floor had stadium seating that allowed for spectators during important votes and hearings. It resembled more of a sporting event, than government. Originally, the building housed meetings of the Ivory Counsel, High Born lords and aristocrats from the twelve families who advised and developed policies to be approved by the King in neighboring Ivory Castle. After the revolution, it was hastily remade into the Imperial Senate Hall. It was over three hundred years later and the royal blue color of the original council chambers could be seen in the chipping white paint .

Cyrus felt lucky there weren’t many people in attendance, save for a few members of the media snapping away on their cameras, recording images for the news reports. The normally imposing man felt small in the largeness of the room, one hundred sixty pairs of eyes looking down on him in god like judgment from their elevated seating.

The soft murmurs of multiple private conversations ended when the seven members of the newly developed Defense Relations Committee entered the room and sat at a stage lined with podiums directly in front of Colonel Mason.

Senator Richard Dunn headed the hearings. He was one of the few High Borns in the Senate, a prominent member of the twelve families, he was also a Duke. Cyrus noticed that the majority of the Vistany controlled Senate belonged to or were connected with the twelve families in some way. The Senator looked over his papers then eyed Cyrus with an air of contempt.

“Colonel Mason, I assume you are a busy man and so am I, so I plan to make this short and quick. This is the first hearing of the defense relations committee…”, Senator Dunn read off his papers, “…aimed at finding solutions to budgetary concerns. First matter of concern being the operations in the disputed area of Kyrant and the black canyons. These operations have cost billions in imperial coin and yet in the last three years attacks have been at an all time low.” He looked up from his paper. “In your opinion, what do you feel is the necessity of such operations now that the threat level seems to have gone down?”

Cyrus was in disbelief. “If there has been little violence against the colonists in Kyrant, I would say the operations at the border are a success. Don’t you think so Senator?” His cocky smile let everyone know that he thought this hearing was a joke.

“I am not doubting their effectiveness, but their need. Do you feel the threat against the Empire is great enough to keep the border operations going in Kyrant?” The Senator droned.

“Let me ask you a question, Senator. Did you fight at any point during the wars?”

“No.”

“Were you in New Empire, Ivory Castle or Skylands when they were invaded?”

“No, Colonel, but if you are insinuating that I wasn’t affected by-”

“Senator, the invasion cost the lives of almost twenty million citizens. It would be impossible for you to not be affected.” Cyrus interrupted.

“Colonel Mason, please answer the question.” Dunn’s voice cracked trying to hold back his frustration.

“This enemy, an enemy we have all witnessed crawl out of the pits of the ninth hell and nearly destroy our empire, they know nothing of honor, compassion and humanity. The only thing they understand is that if they cross that line, my men, my Ni’Razeem Shadows will cut them down where they stand. Take away that defense, the re-building effort of Kyrant will have been for nothing and it will be just a matter of time before they attempt to invade Opree again. Yes, these operations are necessary. You have nine million settlers and the last few million Kyre people left in existence in this colony. To gamble their lives with several billion in coin, coin, I might add that your committees can piss away in minutes, is not only foolish but incredibly reckless.”

There was a brief silence following Cyrus’s response, followed by quiet murmurs.

“That is rather convenient for you Colonel? Nobody else is posted at the border besides you and your Ni’Razeem Shadows. Do you expect us to keep paying you to keep the bogey men away on just your word that they are still a threat?” Senator Kraig Raid chimed in.

“I’m sorry, Senator Raid, but I come from a time when a man’s word is his honor and his honor cannot be bought at any price. How easily have you all forgotten what the Navat had wrought on our cities and our people? These are not the monsters in your child’s storybooks. The threat is real”

“The threat of what? Monsters, Colonel Mason?” A few of the Senators laughed. “From the ninth hell? These are your words Colonel, and you expect us to take you seriously? I don’t mock your service to this Empire. You are skilled warrior and if it wasn’t for the Ni’Razeem, the Navat Wars would have cost many more lives, but it worries me that you still keep to this superstition and causes me to doubt your objectiveness on the situation.”

Cyrus took a deep breath to avoid losing his calm. The rumor about the Navat being men who have adapted to life on the fire plains, was ridiculous. Cyrus knew who they really were, an army of abominations created by an angry, dark god, bent on destroying humanity. It was unlikely the mostly secular Oprians would ever accept that truth because it was easier to sleep at night when they were dealing with a rational, mortal enemy.

“Senator Raid, it is impossible to maintain objectivity about the enemy in war. Visit the Kyre Memorial see what these creatures did. Better yet, come visit me and I’ll show you Im Balti, a small village raided by just a small unit of Navat a year back. After we can discuss objectivity. The border cannot go unprotected.”

“And that is a point I whole heartedly agree with you on,” said Senator Dunn.

“The issue is not if the borders should be protected, it is by whom. If the threat

ceases to be dire enough to use valuable military resources, it is our responsibility to find cost effective solutions.”

Cyrus was furious. “You mean private contractors? Will these contractors also be siphoning money from the Empire to fund their slave trade in Lo Irant? Senator Crystol I am looking at you.”

Senator Crystol nearly knocked his chair over while jumping up, ready to answer the Colonel’s accusations with his fists. Hobert attempted to settle Cyrus down before he said anything truly damaging, but the diminutive man stood no chance.

“Colonel Mason, that is enough. Senator Crystol was cleared of all charges with the Apex Malacom scandal. All contractors are under strict governmental scrutiny. We are also not making any decisions just yet. This is just a hearing.” Dunn smiled at his ability to rattle the notorious Colonel Cyrus Mason.

The blood boiled under Cyrus’s skin his nerves ached for a confrontation. “I spent the better part of twenty years fighting the Navat and I can tell you, not a contractor in the world has the technology, skill and tactics able to keep them at bay for very long. Take the Shadows out of Kyrant and you are signing the death sentences of tens of millions of people!”

Having had enough of this circus, Cyrus abruptly stormed out of the room to gasps of shock. Hobert quickly scurried after him.

***

Chapter 3

After almost two decades of war in the forsaken colony of Kyrant, the lingering smell of death hung heavy in air. It was the kind of smell that hovered on the back of his tongue; the kind of smell that never went away, and for Colonel Cyrus Mason, it was the smell of home. He approached the base located across the dusty desert plains riding in the light armored transport. The air was hot and thick, but a breeze sent a wisp of fresh coolness as the night consumed the horizon, its darkness chasing the sun from the sky.

Officially, the Navat Wars had been over for nearly fifteen years. A treaty signed by the Senate gave the Navat all lands to the south and east of the Black Plains in exchange for peace. The Empire declared victory and sent the troops back home to a hero’s welcome of parties and parades. Colonel Mason and his men, stayed behind to keep the peace.

The thought of how the war had been forgotten back in Opree pissed him off. They had rebuilt while he and his Shadows languished in this shit. There was hardly a place one could step in Kyrant and not see the scars of what happened once the Navat crawled out from the Black Canyons.

According to all three holy books, the history of humanity, everyone in the Empire who carried the one bloodline began in Kyrant when the great creator, the first father, gave a drop of his blood to the children of each of his three wives so they could create man and have children of their own to worship them. The one blood line connected all of humanity together. Before the wars, the colony was home to a wealth of vibrant cultures. Now, charred skeletons of buildings and stone monuments slowly being reclaimed by Mother Nature were the only reminders that people once existed and Cyrus knew even that too would decay.

The scar just over his heart throbbed. Over his uniform, his fingers traced around the curved symbol that had been branded into him when he first arrived here.“We thank you for your sacrifice, but...” The words of the sniveling twat Senator played in his head. They were bastards, the lot of them. What did they know about sacrifice? There was once a time when those in the Empire respected him as a hero. Each visit back to Opree made him feel like their respect was less about gratitude and more about fear.

He knew about the rumors, the whispers of how his Shadows defeated the Navat when no one else could. Most of them were fishwives tales that included witchcraft and dark Kyre magic. I did what I had to do to save the Empire, no matter what the cost, he thought. There was a time when repeating that mantra justified everything he had done, but each time he said those words, they became harder and harder to believe. The soft sting of guilt burned its way into the back of his mind as a lifetime of regrets leaked out from his subconscious. A flask full of fine whiskey he kept in his pocket, helped chase the regrets away.

Their camp for the last several months had been the abandoned village of Ire Gardil, just along the disputed borderlands. The streets littered with the remnants of the people who once called this place home. Dark windows in hollowed out buildings looked like the mournful eyes of a witness to incomprehensible tragedy. Although it was a scene he was used to, whenever Cyrus returned from a visit from Opree, he was always more aware of the massive devastation the wars caused when it stood in stark contrast to the Empire’s vibrant cities.

He walked into the temple admiring its large stone columns. The ornate artwork that decorated the walls had begun to fade, its treasures that were offered in sacrifice, pilfered and sold. Once sacred artifacts became kitschy decor for wealthy homes in Opree. He pictured the Kyre gods ashen and atrophied without their children to worship them. It had been converted to their operations headquarters for the time being.

His second in command, Sgt. Channing, kept things running during the Colonel’s absence. In the rest of the Empire it would be unheard of for an under caste enlisted to be second in command of anything, but Shadows held their own rank structure. Blood and breeding had nothing to do with it. They didn’t need stripes, buttons or stars to distinguish hierarchy. It was ingrained from the moment they became a Shadow.

Channing had been there since the beginning. They had formed the Shadows together and fought beside one another countless times. Although technically Channing was second in command, Cyrus always considered him an equal and friend above all else.

Cyrus thought that if had Channing been born or bought into a higher caste, with his battle record, he could have been a general. A genius on the field, he was a shrewd and cunning strategist. Years before Cyrus had offered to pay Channing’s way into a higher status. Out of pride, Channing refused. Now, the spoils of war had made Channing wealthy enough to buy his way in three times over, yet Cyrus knew it was more likely that the sun would fall into the sea before Channing would sell his name and his banners for the title of a gentleman.

In a small chamber in the cavernous marble temple, Cyrus observed as Channing stood over a map of the border, trying to ascertain where the Navat would make their next move. A red pin dangerously close to the border represented a new colonial outpost, a settlement from one of the corporations wanting to take advantage of the cheap land and seemingly endless resources of the ravaged colony.

In western, more secure areas of the colony, the ranchers, farmers and businessmen were gaining small fortunes working the land. At first it was mostly members of the under castes seeking a chance to secure a future for their families. Now, everyone wanted a piece of Kyrant as settlements pushed further and further east, closer to the borders and into disputed lands.

Channing was confident that the Navat were planning an attack on this new settlement.

Channing twisted the pin on the map between his thumb and forefinger, too lost in thought to notice his commander entering the room.

“You should be more vigilant my dear friend. I could be trying to kill you right now.” Cyrus whispered into Channing’s ear so low it made the click of the Colonel’s pistol pressed against his temple sound deafening.

Channing’s stocky frame sat stalwart in the chair, unmoved in the massive shadow cast by his commanding officer. Cyrus pulled back the hammer, a little more attempting to break his concentration and still nothing from Channing. He tapped the side of the Sergeant’s temple with the barrel of his impatient weapon, which failed again to illicit a response.

Icy steel penetrated the back of his uniform and Cyrus’s grin faded into a grimace. The sharp point of a field knife danced menacingly over his kidney, pressed just hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to break the skin.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me, Colonel,” Channing said, not looking up from his maps. His voice, although soft and a bit gravely, always carried a menacing tone.

Cyrus stiffened and took shallow breaths in fear that the knife would slide right into him with the slightest bit of pressure. The heat radiating off his assailant and the humidity from his sweat gave Cyrus chills. He smelled of sour milk and a whore’s crotch and though he was breathing loudly through his mouth, he didn’t utter a word. Cyrus’s heart was keeping pace with every wretched breath as he shifted his weight in preparation for his next move.

“Valmer, for the love of your gods take a fucking bath.” Cyrus turned around on the enormous Shadow and the room erupted with his deep laugh.

Sergeant Calvin Valmer grinned. The ex-con was a vicious bastard whose skills were unparalleled in the field. Nobody enjoyed the kill quite like Valmer. He embodied the stereotype of the legendary Ni’Razeem Shadow: a large, bloodthirsty warrior who bordered on the criminally insane.

Cyrus had recruited Valmer nine years ago at a Kyre outpost bar filled with exiles. The man had killed three men over a spilt beer and an insult against the Queen. It was a choice between the gallows or the Shadows for Valmer, but Cyrus had yet to see a Shadow more devoted to his duty of killing the Navat.

“Very good Shadow, dismissed.” Channing broke his stoic expression with his distinctive hoarse chuckle.

Valmer saluted the two senior Shadows and left, but his smell lingered a few moments after his departure.

“How’d it go?” Channing asked, more interested in his map than with Cyrus’s answer.

“Honestly, not well. The Senate wants to take Kyrant out of the hands of the military and put contractors in charge of border security. Vultures.”

“Well good luck with that.” Channing huffed. “The Senate can’t decide on what paper they should wipe their asses with. They’re completely useless, if you ask me. Honestly sir, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Doesn’t matter? What happens when we’re disbanded and replaced with contractors?”

“Go into business and make a fortune selling my services instead of getting a stipend as a humble servant to the Empire.” Channing smirked. “We are warriors. We fight the Navat under our own colors. We take our authority directly from the gods themselves. Our sole purpose is to kill. We are the exterminators, forever sworn to our sacred oaths.” He recited part of the creed he and Cyrus wrote together.

Cyrus didn’t take much comfort in those words. For the last fifteen years they’d been left to their own devices, thank the gods for that, yet he knew it could all go away and the legacy of the Ni’Razeem would decay like the Kyre temple.

“Has there been any activity?” Cyrus asked, changing the subject from politics.

“Not yet. It’s been six months since any news of raids, not even a scout. Somethin’s coming though, soon.” Channing placed a black pin on the map, close to the red one marking the new settlement.

“I hope so.” Cyrus studied the map, stroking his beard. He saw no raids, not even a sighting. It was cause for concern. “How are the men holding up?”

“Restless.” Channing paused and glanced down at the red stain on his pant leg.“We had an incident with Wayland…”

“What happened?” Cyrus sighed deeply, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“He was at Haven, a small town and trading outpost, mostly ranchers and furs, someone tried to rob him-and it didn’t go to well.”

“How many dead?” Cyrus asked.

“Seventeen.”It was difficult to find the right words to make it sound more pleasant. “Nailed the preacher’s wife to the temple doors…before raping her. She lived, last I heard.” he added.

“When?”

“About a week ago. Took us a few days to find him and by then...”Channing faltered.“By then it was too late,” he muttered.

“Where is he?”

“He didn’t come down. We waited three days, but he started to go into the change. We tried to turn him, get him to come back, but fuck, I hadn’t seen anyone go off that fast.”

Cyrus felt his stomach knot. Wayland was recruited less than a year ago, from an Oprian monastery. Channing had always had his doubts about the young man’s promise as a Shadow and thought Cyrus was a fool to believe that the boys faith would save him.

“You did what you had to. It would have been worse for him if he came down and had to answer for his crimes.” The words were supposed to bring more comfort than they did. It was his fault. He was wrong. Wayland’s devotion to his gods was his weakness, not his strength. He was a holy man, not a warrior. His experiment failed.

“Why wasn’t anyone with him?” Cyrus growled before catching his temper.

“I don’t know. He was with Hill and Bosch, but they lost track of him. Honestly, with those two it was better they weren’t there for that. Both are pretty broken up about it. Most the men are.”

“Alright.” Cyrus took another drink from his flask. “Prepare Wayland for burial, we can’t send him home after what he did. We will do Shadow Rites on him, alert the men.”

*****

A storm of orange flames swallowed the body of Timothy Wayland as the Shadows looked on. A few of the men stayed after the rites to sit around the fire, drinking to his honor. When a Shadow died in battle, his funeral was a celebration. Drums, dancing, whores and a feast marked the occasion. Wayland’s had been a much more solemn affair. In everybody’s mind, his body couldn’t burn fast enough. He was stark reminder about where all of the Shadow’s futures would end. Timothy Wayland was better left forgotten and in the morning he would be, but for now they paid their respects to their fallen brother.

Although it was the same, standard issue beige canvas tent as everyone else, Wayland’s sat lopsided, leaning against the crumbling stone wall of what used to be a house. A menagerie of seven pointed stars, the symbol for the sky gods of Opree, was fashioned from bits of wood, metal and other found objects and hung from string in front of the tent. One was painted right at the entrance. Inside, pieces of the Verinat, the holy book of the sky gods, littered the canvas walls. Prayers and pleas painted all over begged for redemption and forgiveness for his sins. The dying light of the lantern cast sinister looking shadows that seemed to threaten Cyrus as he cautiously entered the tent. He could feel the boy’s madness and unrest lingering as he rifled through the Shadow’s belongings, looking for answers to a question he didn’t yet know. Good sense told him it was better to not dwell, plenty of Shadows didn’t make it through their first rage, Wayland was different though. The two recruits, Wayland and Hill, went through the ceremony like everyone else, but he didn’t mark them, like he did the others. It was supposed to protect them from the full force of the curse, but his little experiment failed. Wayland succumbed in the end, the same as all of them would when the war was over.

With his hopes for redemption in their death throws, he wished he could just accept his fate, even embrace it the way Channing and most of his men did. He admired the artwork just over Wayland’s rack. The defaced painting depicting the gods was a famous one. The children of the first father were leading the old ones and the ancients in battle against the abominations created by the dark gods, Ismarlen and Malrus. The gods were nowhere to be found in Kyrant. Their absence was too painful for him, Cyrus though the others were often too lost to notice the changes at first. They hungered for the power so much they welcomed it. His guilt haunted him with echoes of the past ringing in his ears.

The night Timothy Wayland became a Shadow was brutally hot. The ritual was the same as always. The giant bonfire burned hotter than all nine hells. Every Shadow gathered, adorned with Kyre tribal war paint. The jagged symbols, marking his body invoked a darkness and fear in Wayland, but he stood strong knowing that whatever was about to happen, his gods would protect him.

“In a time before time, in the era of the old ones and the ancients,” Cyrus began, his voice carried surprisingly clearly over the roar of the fire in the dense heat. “The story of the Navat belongs to everyone who carries within him the one bloodline of the first father.”

“We are one in his name.” In unison, the men gave an unenthusiastic reply.

“We remember these stories told to us as children. We have dismissed them as fables, legends and tales to keep us in line. The Navat have returned from the fire plains from which they were banished, from the ninth hell, but the gods are long gone from this world. The Ni’Razeem, the men who walk in the shadows are charged with protecting humanity by destroying the Navat, at all costs. Shadows don’t defend, Shadows attack. Our job is to kill, no retreat, no mercy.”

“No retreat, no mercy.” The men shouted back at their leader with much more gusto than before.

“Tonight we welcome Timothy Wayland and Evan Hill as Shadows and brothers. They will, for the first time, take part in this rite and when they wake in the morning will have earned a title that cannot be bought, or sold or given by any king or priest, it can never be inherited and elevates them to a status beyond blood or banners.”

“Do you, Timothy Wayland pledge yourself to the defense of this Empire against the unholy plague?”

“I do.”Hill eagerly blurted out.

“I do.” Wayland’s response was softer but said with just as much conviction.

“What are you willing to sacrifice for your Empire?”

“All that I have.” They replied in unison.

“What are you willing to sacrifice for this rite?”

“All that I am.” They answered.

“We take this power from the gods themselves, proving ourselves worthy of this rite and title. Tonight these men become Shadows, tonight these men dance with the gods!” The Shadows cheered as Cyrus handed Wayland a leather bowl to drink out of, after, he handed it to Hill who did the same.

“Shadows what?” Sgt. Channing shouted to the frenzied warriors.

“Shadows kill!” screamed the men, their savagery bathed in the flickering.

“What?”

“Kill!”

“What?”

“Kill. Kill. Kill!”...

The memory played in the back of his mind, eroding away his righteousness. He asked them and they agreed. That justification had always allowed him to sleep at night in the past. Tonight, it sat like a stone in his throat that he could not swallow. He flipped through the journal Wayland kept hidden under his pillow, its tattered pages covered in the erratic ramblings and drawings that depicted a man slowly losing his mind.

“Sir?” Private Evan Hill poked his head into the tent.

Cyrus took a moment before turning around.

“Yes Shadow. What is it?” He grumbled.

“Um…sir, I wanted to say…” Hill fumbled outside of the tent, unsure whether to step in or wait for permission.

“Shit Hill, just come in.” Cyrus waved.

Hill had intensity about him, a strength that Wayland lacked. The quiet seventeen year old looked like he could barely pick up a weapon, let alone fire it, but Cyrus had seen him single handedly take out over a dozen Kyre pirates during a raid on the ports of the Dermont Settlements. His father was an exporter. The two were cornered in an alley, his father was gunned down and the boy’s fury was unleashed.

The young Shadow stood there anxiously twisting his cover in his hands. The guilt seemed to pour from his eyes. He stood at attention staring off and took a few breaths to settle his nerves.

“Sir, what happened to Wayland…it was my fault.” He confessed. “We were all out in Haven together, I wasn’t paying attention and we got separated. I knew he wasn’t doing good. He told me he was possessed-that, that he was losing control and I ignored it.” He lowered his head. “I am just as responsible for what happened at Haven and I am prepared to accept the consequences.”

Cyrus paused. Hill had the makings of a great Shadow and an equally great man. In his experience, the two rarely existed in tandem.

“Wayland wasn’t cut out to be a Shadow. There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent what happened.”

“But if I only--”

“Regret isn’t good for a Shadow,” Cyrus interrupted sternly. “Wayland made the same vow you did. He pledged himself to fight the Navat at any cost, but he couldn’t handle it.”

Hill looked down at his boots and scratched his head. “Wayland said we was damned, possessed by demons. I just thought he hit the root water too hard, but then some of the others told me stories that we was all cursed. I knew Wayland, sir, he was smart, had lots of books. He wasn’t the kind to go over with no reason-I guess I was just wondering...you know-if those stories are true, like if we is cursed?” He felt stupid for asking such a dumb question.

“Do you remember when the Navat raided the cities in Opree?” Cyrus inquired, still thumbing through Wayland’s journal.

“Um, no sir. My mother was still pregnant with me.”

The realization that a whole generation grew up knowing nothing about the world before the Navat Wars took Cyrus a second to process. He felt old.

“Well, when the war started, the Empire managed to push the Navat back into Kyrant, but we were still losing. If Opree fell, humanity would have fallen with it. The Navat are stronger, faster than us and crave death and destruction above all else. We needed a weapon that would give us a fighting chance.” He looked up to see Hill hanging on every word, like a child listening to a fairy tale. “To be a Shadow is to sacrifice. You are a part of something much larger than yourself, understand? Sixteen years ago, I made a choice, the same choice you and Wayland made just six months ago.”

Cyrus stopped on a page with an illustration of the Shadow initiation ceremony and opposite that, a black charcoal stick figure being swallowed by a dark abyss. He studied it, the sharp lines, the clumps of broken charcoal. Wayland was practically carving these images into the journal. Peeling back the folded corner of the page revealed that it was dated the day before Cyrus left for the Senate hearing.

“I was offered an opportunity to save the Empire. I would gain the strength, speed and cunning to keep the Navat at bay. I took it and the Ni’Razeem Shadows are now an unstoppable force protecting the Empire the way the gods once did.” He flipped through the several pages of black, the charcoal darkening the tips of his fingers as if Wayland’s madness was trying to pull him in.

“But?” Hill asked, not satisfied with Cyrus’s explanation.

“But what?”

“Is that the story then? It doesn’t make any sense. There is something you aren’t telling me.” He was tired of feeling left out of this big secret everyone else seemed to know. They would ignore his questions, telling him that in time, he would know.

“This isn’t a story, boy.” He snapped and continued turning the journal pages. A hollowed out figure screamed in agony as a snarling razor wolf curled up inside of him, its orange eyes was staring out at the page. “Ismarlen, the deal I made was with Ismarlen.”

Hill took a step back. This had to be a joke, but Cyrus’s stern look that led Hill to believe that it wasn’t. “Ismarlen? The fire god, Ismarlen?” He remembered the stories in the Verinat. Brothers Ismarlen and Malrus were the illegitimate sons of the creator, the first father, who were denied the ability to create man to worship them. Out of jealousy, the brothers killed their father and tried to wipe out humanity with an army of abominations they created themselves. They were forever cursed to the fiery pits deep below the ground in the belly of Nellis, the harvest god of iron, along with their unholy children. It was a story so old and told so often that whether it was true or not was irrelevant. “So what happened to Wayland, it was a demon?” Although the notion sounded even more ridiculous as the words came out of his mouth, for some reason, it felt like he was speaking the truth. “Is what happened to Wayland, going to happen to me?”

“All of us have and at some point yes, you will too, but most likely you’ll come down from it like the rest. You and Wayland had yet to see battle. It’s easier to go through your first rage there. You will feel invincible, like a god. You’ll learn to manage the change, control it with time and the times you can’t, you’ll have your brothers to protect you.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Hill was more curious than angry. He was hearing all of this for the first time and none of it shocked him. It was like somehow he’d known deep down the whole time. He didn’t feel any different, at least he didn’t think he felt any different. He poked at his stomach a couple of times, half expecting the demon to growl but nothing happened. Maybe the Colonel is just losing it after so many years in the desert? Hill pondered.

“I don’t remember either of you asking. Besides, had you known would it have made a difference?” He shut the journal as the images became too disturbing even for the seasoned warrior and he put it in his pocket.

“I guess not. “He shrugged. Cyrus was right. He had nowhere to go after his father was killed. He’d be barely scraping by, working on the docks had it not been for Cyrus. Cursed or not, being a Shadow was the best thing to happen to him.

“So we’re all cursed, just like in the stories? Is that what drove Wayland mad?” Hill asked with such an innocent matter -of-factness, it threw Cyrus off guard.

“Wayland couldn’t hold on to himself in the wake of the change. All of the holy books, the Verinat, the Itara, even the Nes Porez, consider personal sacrifice for the greater good as the holiest of actions. It assures the righteous a place among their ancestors and their gods. It’s what attracts so many faithful to attempt to be Shadows. To them we are on a holy mission to fight evil, and that is true, but there is no glory or honor in it. When you change you will think things, sometimes even do things that will disgust your conscience. You will be in constant battle with yourself to retain even your basic humanity. Regret, dwelling on the past will drive you mad. Always remember that we do this to protect the Empire and humanity itself. Without us, the Navat would have destroyed everything. We are a part of something larger than ourselves. Our mission alone is usually justification enough.”

“And the times it isn’t enough?” Hill choked, swallowing back his tears. He prayed he could save himself from the humiliation of shedding them in front of the Colonel.

Cyrus pulled the pouch out of his breast pocket. The soft brown leather was worn. With great care, he laid out its contents on Wayland’s rack. The syringe glistened in the glow of the lanterns. Lined up along side of it were three glass vials filled with a hazy green fluid.

“For those times, we forget,” he said, making room for Hill to join him. Although hesitant, Hill complied and allowed his commander to take his arm and roll up his sleeve. Cyrus tied the tourniquet around his arm, holding the syringe between his teeth while he searched for a decent vein in the private’s skinny arm.

“The itsy dust helps keep you in control. I’m not sure why, but if you feel like you are about to go over, let someone know.” Cyrus pulled the cap off the syringe using his teeth.

Hill felt a sharp sting and then shortly after that the wave took him hard. To fight the nausea he fell back onto the soft canvas, melting into it as it cradled him. He relaxed and let the drug carry him off. The broad smile painted on Hill’s face caused Cyrus to chuckle while he prepared a dose for himself.

Cyrus made it outside to sit by the dying flames of the pyre as the powerful narcotics took their effect. All of the others had left. He tossed Wayland’s journal into the pit watching the flames jump up to swallow the madness before it smoldered back to bits of glowing orange among blackened wood and bone. The stars started to spin and the ground became unstable so he focused on the charred skull of Timothy Wayland, staring as the smoke fill black vacant cavities where his muddy brown eyes once were.

“So Colonel, when the fighting stops are we going to all turn into monsters like Ismarlen’s children did? Is what’s written in the Verinat going to happen to us?” a dazed Hill repeated as he stumbled to the ground next to his commander. Keeping his head up was proving difficult, so he simply laid himself down on the grass sprawled out staring at the stars.

“It’s part of the curse.” Cyrus’s ambiguous tone, reminded himself that he still had trouble resigning to the truth that their fates were sealed.

“Well, your gods are the harvest gods. Do you think we can be saved?”

“It’s possible. Why? Are you thinking about converting?” He took his attention off of Wayland and turned to Hill.

“Nah.” The kid laughed. “We’re already kinda like gods now. Aren’t we?”

Cyrus laughed deep from his belly. “That we are, Shadow.”

The two Shadows sat in a drug induced stupor watching the last of the flames faded into a white smoke. It was still dark and he was still high when Hill woke up on the cold patch of dirt. Staggering through the camp, he noticed Wayland’s tent was closer and wasn’t being used, so he crawled inside and fell in a heap onto the soft pillow. He gazed up at the walls festooned with the signs of Wayland’s struggle. Even though it made him sad, he was defiant to not succumb to the same fate. He said a silent prayer as his late brother’s demons and the drugs lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*****

“Wake up, hog fucker!” Valmer kicked at the sleeping Private’s rack. The sun and smell of bleach burned Hill’s eyes when he attempted to open them. He stretched as much as he could, but his body was stiff and sore, and his head was so heavy, he could swear it was filled with rocks.

“The itsy dust is a bitch, but you’ll get used to it kid. It’s for your own good, keeps you from going all…you know.” Valmer decided to distract himself from the subject by taking joy in the junior Shadow’s pain. “Cheer up. For us it’s free and it flows down here like wine. I bet your mother has to suck fifteen cocks to get her hands on a hit like that.” He laughed at his own joke and left.

Hill still lying down, gazed up to look the canvas shrine to Wayland’s insanity again. To his dismay, the walls were blank, not a mark on them. Wayland’s papers and belongings were gone too. It was just Hill and the smell of bleach in an empty tent. Wayland’s memory was erased and not a word would be spoken about the fallen shadow ever again.

***

Chapter 4

Cyrus stepped off the air transport terminal at New Empire City and headed directly to the high-end Empire Grove Markets. It had been a long three months of fighting the Navat for the Venolin Corporation Settlement and he welcomed the break. It had been a good victory and Cyrus was relieved that the Senate had no choice but to continue backing their operations in Kyrant.

For Cyrus, it was always astonishing how much things had changed whenever he would return to Opree. Nowhere was that change more evident than in New Empire City. Most of the city had been rebuilt directly on top of the wreckage of the old one. Silver skeletons of new skyscrapers stretched higher than ever before. New industries brought new wealth. The Middle Castes were growing leaps and bounds, making the Vistany even wealthier. Vistany fashions and culture dominated the streets. Normally, like most of those in his generation, Cyrus would gripe about the petty shallowness of the modern Opree youth, but today he sought out its novelty as a welcomed distraction.

His favorites were the stores that displayed the latest gadgets. Technology had advanced so much since the start of the war. Technology that because of the embargos, was severely restricted in the colonies. Cyrus was fascinated by these new and expensive toys but found few were practical for use in Kyrant.

Moving platforms snaked along rows of stores, rushing people along the crowded market place. By the food court, a large monitor projected the news report, showing images of the riots in Roe. Sipping on a large cup of fresh Manara apple cider (a seasonal treat never available in Kyrant), Cyrus watched emotionless as the screen played amateur footage of mobs of Irantis attacking government facilities and colonists loyal to the Empire. The familiar images and sounds of war, buildings on fire, dead bodies, and gunfire seemed alien in the backdrop of his ancestral homeland. His mind went to thoughts of loved ones still there.

He reached inside his jacket and grabbed his pocket-com. Despite technology for instant communication wherever you went had been available since he was a young man, this generation craved digital distractions like razor wolves craved carnage. He stared at it for a moment, admiring the sleek design that looked like it was just a small piece of glass that with one touch, turned into a beautiful full color display. With this he could have her in an instant, her voice right in his ear.

In Kyrant, mail was a luxury that came maybe once a month. They were cut off completely, sometimes two or three days’ drive from even a radio com station. Time moved slower out there than it did in the cities, or even Lo Irant. It was as if the rest of the world was moving at breakneck speed and the aging Shadow couldn’t keep up.

Before he keyed in her code, he did the math in his head. Had it really been so long they’d last spoken? He went over his calculations again. She was fifteen now, hardly a little girl anymore, and suddenly the little device he held in his hands, whose sole purpose was to enhance one’s ability to communicate, made it very difficult. He couldn’t understand, 2333 34 2100 all he had to tap was 6 and he’d be able to say all the things he has wanted to, and yet his finger hovered paralyzed by guilt.

He turned it off, put the device safely away back in his pocket and was able to breathe again.

A group of young girls, decked out in the latest fashions, pushed by him, fawning over their latest purchases and laughing without a care in the world. He watched them pass, bright stockings, short skirts and high boots, strings of crystals woven into their hair. Apparently this is what passes for fashion these days. He felt old.

The pocket com in his jacket grew heavier by the passing minute. Instead of making the call, he spent a small fortune on the latest clothes and gadgets--whatever the shop girls said was what all the young Vistany girls were asking for. He felt ridiculous holding the bright colorful bags and packages from stores made for teenage girls, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sent something home. It could have been a year but in all honesty, it could have been five. It was best to play it safe when making up for lost time and money had never been an issue.

Cyrus had been wealthy from birth, the third-born son of a steel fortune heir. All of his family, save a few distant relatives, had died in the attacks. His inheritance, along with spoils he gathered during twenty years of war, would take ten lifetimes to spend. It allowed him to provide his Shadows with the things they needed that the Empire wouldn’t, and paid for the damage they would sometimes cause. Whatever problems Cyrus couldn’t kill, he bought and the few left over usually became respected friends.

Watching the endless masses of people shopping, working and socializing, he pictured himself in a civilian life, fancy suit, and private vehicles. Although New Empire was a wonderful place to visit, it just wasn’t home. As the sun went down, the lights went on in the fountains and on the walkways. The soft orange, pink and purple colors of the sunset reflected off of the mirrored surfaces of the buildings. It reminded him of the rare and beautiful starfire stones he’d procured in Kyrant.

His eyes lit up at the thought of the stones. The last time he was in New Empire, for the Senate hearing some time ago, he had placed a very special custom order at the jeweler. It should be complete by now.

The older Kyre-born woman behind the counter opened the white velvet box to show Cyrus the completed piece. Her aged hands were covered in burn scars from the wars.

“It says here you’re paid in full. I was wondering when this was going to be picked up. The sir worked for weeks on this. By far his most beautiful work.” She spoke with a thick accent as she handed him the box.

The piece was magnificent, a bracelet with the three starfire stones that turned a vibrant red and purple whenever they caught the light. Surrounded by diamonds and platinum, it had a traditional High Born design that gave it a timeless look. He smiled. As beautiful as this bracelet was, it paled in comparison to the girl who was going to receive it.

“She is a very lucky lady, who receives this.” The woman smiled.

Cyrus wondered for a moment how awkward it was for the under caste woman to be handing over a trinket that costs more than she would make in a lifetime.

“It’s for my daughter. It matches the necklace I gave her.” He said.

She smiled back at him politely. “I’m sure seeing her smile when she gets this would be worth a king’s fortune. She is lucky to have a father who loves her so much. It’s so wonderful to watch them grow up, is it not?”

Cyrus gave an uncomfortable nod. How would he know? The polite small talk reminded him that he could not picture his little girl smiling. He wasn’t even sure what she looked like now.

She was only six the last time he’d seen her. She had cried and begged for him not to leave her. He told her that even though he loved her, he was a soldier and it was his duty to protect the Empire.

“You know what, daddy?” She screamed at him, her button nose curled up and her eyes angry, red, and full of tears. “You don’t love me! You just want your whores and your dusty empire!” The words were obviously his ex-wife Regina’s, but the pain behind them was all her own. She was furious at him that day. He would rather be tortured for days by Navat scouts than have to endure that look ever again.

The velvet box was tucked safely in his jacket alongside his pocket com as he walked out on to the chill of the open air market. Tired, he decided to call it a night. The bracelet and the other gifts could be shipped out tomorrow. After all, he was going to be in New Empire for a few weeks.

Sulking down the lighted walkways of the large market, now thoroughly depressed, a large window of a small boutique with live young women modeling the finest in bedroom fashions caught Cyrus’s eye. The soft, sheer fabrics hung gently off of their curves as they swayed their hips seductively, as if the girls underneath the little outfits were the ones for sale.

The past dropped from his thoughts and he had someone completely different on his mind when he bought what seemed like half the store’s merchandise. She was someone local, to whom he had decided at that minute to visit.

Next Chapter: Lilly