Chapter 2: Moloch

City of Pytar, Ergon
10th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
 

Thirty-three corpses with white eyes made a perfect circle around Moloch, trapping him, accusing him. Five of them were women, innocents killed in battle. The rest of them were men he knew. He understood what they wanted though they uttered not a sound.

He had led those men to their deaths at the Western Pass.

He’d been unable to save the women, kidnapped and used as shields, their lives ending in a gruesome fight.

He had failed them, and they wanted him to suffer.

Steam like that which endlessly rose from the Mavyem Valley was white against the inky blackness beyond the circle of corpses. White tendrils curled around their legs, dissipating so as to keep the space between him and them clear. Strange light illuminated each of the deceased. Greying skin flaked from their flesh. Lips and fingernails were black. Where they had been struck down by the enemy, wounds gaped red and angry, glistening with congealing blood.

Moloch’s feet were rooted to the ground but only because there was nowhere to run. His veins throbbed as his heart thrashed inside of his chest. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked his clothes despite the frigid air.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words echoing all around him. Desperate to make things better, he added, “Your deaths were not in vain. The Western Pass was destroyed.”

Each of the dead took one step forward. Moloch’s throat constricted, his stomach twisted, and his lungs burned.

“Please, don’t come closer.” He held out clammy hands and dropped to his knees. “I did everything I could to save you.”

The white wind picked up, streaming in from all sides, barely disturbing the corpses but lashing Moloch hard enough to steal his breath. It was hot, that terrible wind; it blistered his skin, scalding him.

The dead took another step forward. He could not stop them. He wasn’t sure if he had the right.

Moloch curled into a ball and covered his face. The acrid stench of burning chemicals filled his nostrils. Fighting against the forceful wind, he managed to peek under one arm to find the source of the smell. Between him and the decaying feet of the corpses were layered lines of powder—each one multi-colored, white upon black upon gray. Moloch recognized the combination immediately. The wind did not disturb the lines, nor did it move the oily ropes extending into the darkness beyond the dead.

The chemists’ explosives!

And then Moloch realized why the ground was black. Beneath him lay the Western Pass, that ancient bridge those thirty-one men had died to destroy. It had been like obsidian, the blackest of its sisters. Radelle’s Heart, the other ancient bridge destroyed, had been gray, while the remaining bridge, the Pytarian Bridge, was white as the snow that graced the peaks of the mountains.

Moloch pounded the black stone. “You’re supposed to be gone!” he shouted. And then he squinted against the scorching hot white wind to look again at the ropes. Fire that had not been there moments before crept along the lines, hungrily lapping at the oil, well on its way to the explosives.

It’s happening now, he thought. And he was in the blast radius.

As the realization hit Moloch, flame touched powder. An overwhelming roar accosted his ears as the bridge beneath him cracked and rolled and threw him into an oncoming wall of flame.

***

Moloch hit solid, cool ground. He gasped for air, and it filled his lungs as it was meant to. The steam and wind were gone, and so were the corpses. His elbows and knees smarted from slamming against stone. Moloch uttered a string of curses as he sat up. His linen nightshirt was soaked with sweat. He peeled it off, sighing and leaning his head against the bedpost.

These nightmares cannot continue, he thought.

His body felt no more rested than it had when he’d crawled into bed the night before. Still, returning to his dream was not appealing. Moloch groaned as he got to his feet.

Morning light streamed in through tall windows characteristic of the Pinnacle Fortress. Beams of sunlight touched his skin, warmed him, and brought a strange mixture of guilt and gratitude. He was alive, but they were dead.

It had been less than a span since the so-called victory at the Western Pass. After the destruction of that ancient bridge and its sister, Radelle’s Heart, the only path left to the enemy was by sea. Invading from the western coast would not allow Adikeans the mobility they’d enjoyed for centuries.

Moloch, Bram, the chemists, and seven Eikonian soldiers had been welcomed back to the city with enthusiasm after the Western Pass had been destroyed. While King Gonnoss of Ergon had declared a festival in Pytar to celebrate, Moloch was ready to continue the fight. They’d only just begun their war campaign, and Moloch’s plan for Eikon to aid their southern neighbor in exchange for fealty hung in the balance, as did his engagement to his love, Junia Nondrum.

Thoughts of his potential engagement both warmed his heart and enraged him. Moloch had done the work to convince King Gonnoss of Ergon to accept Eikon’s aid. In exchange, once the Adikeans were purged from their lands, Ergonians would bow to Eikon’s king. That would bring King Shamylle one step closer to uniting all of Leyumin.

But even after his success, Moloch’s father had rewritten the terms of his promises.

Junia’s father, Lord Nondrum, Duke of Pytar and brother to King Gonnoss, despised Moloch’s entire family, thanks to Nibal Sarrem’s promiscuity. Lord Nondrum’s sister had fallen victim to Nibal’s games and paid dearly for it, ending her life when she was discarded and shamed.

Staying true to character, Moloch’s father cared not that his past could prevent Moloch from marrying the woman he loved. Their engagement would only move forward if Moloch was named the next Duke of Eunoya over and against his twin brother, Waen. He’d also need King Shamylle to name him his father’s successor as Chief Military Advisor; that required public backing from his father. With both titles secured, Junia’s father would have no choice but to approve their engagement.

But Nibal Sarrem refused Moloch his rightful inheritance until the war was completed. Meanwhile, it was sure that Lord Nondrum would do everything in his power to convince his daughter to marry someone else.

For Moloch, the war had a time limit.

Once again, he’d requested by letter that his father reconsider. Despite the losses, he had won the Battle at the Western Pass.

Perhaps, he hoped, something good will come out of that terrible day.

He had yet to receive a reply, though he expected the aviary to receive one any day.

Moloch strode across his room to an ornate washstand made of red taurret wood and marble. He tipped the heavy jug of water to fill the basin and splashed cold water upon his face. The quarters given to him after returning from the battle were far superior to the small room he’d been given upon his first arrival in Pytar, back when his mission had been to convince Gonnoss of his plan.

The hum of the city waking brought Moloch to the windows. The Pinnacle Fortress was at the height of Pytar, built into the mountain so that it towered above all other structures within sight. Like the fortress, the rest of the city was embedded in the stone. Where the faces of two mountains nearly kissed, Pytar thrived. Hundreds of bridges, some solid stone, others made of rope, were slung across the steep chasm that divided the city. Great nets spanned the space under the bridges. Roads and pathways were carved into the sides of the mountains, and layer upon layer of the city stretched downward into the chasm. There was always a soft whistle of wind in Pytar; it was an ever-present sound that sung of a hearty and proud people.

But it was the last Ancient Bridge that drew Moloch’s attention. He could see it from his windows, stretching impossibly far without support beneath it, white and almost blinding as it reflected the early morning sunlight. Just below the Ancient Bridge, steam rolled like clouds, rising from the Mavyem Valley far below.

Since his arrival five days prior, Moloch had studied that bridge every morning. His plan had destroyed her sisters to the west. Or, at least, the northern parts that connected the south of the continent to the north. They had not heard as of yet if the bridges had crumbled completely. It was possible they still stood over the toxic valley below, reaching only halfway across the chasm.

That meant the Pytarian Bridge was more sacred than ever. It was the last of its kind, and no one could ever recreate or repair the lost bridges. They’d been made when the dark arts thrived in Leyumin, a time long gone with disciplines long forgotten.

Besides its historical significance, the remaining Ancient Bridge was important in its own right. There was no other way to cross the Radelle Mountains since her sisters’ demise. The Mavyem Valley that split the mountain range east to west was a wasteland of acidic pools that could dissolve a human being within minutes. The Strao Dunes in the east were treacherous and teeming with horrific beasts; there, people became prey. The Tehsan Ocean to the west would be a conduit of war between Adikea and the North until Adikea was defeated, not just forced back to their own lands. The only other safe passage besides the Pytarian Bridge was travel by way of the Parswylin Ocean to the east.

A rapid knock was followed by a soft thunk as the door to Moloch’s quarters opened. He turned just slightly to confirm the person entering was Bram, his second-in-command and longtime friend.

“Are you done with your morning sulk?” Bram asked as he closed the door behind him. “Didn’t think I’d find you still in your smallclothes.”

Moloch ground his teeth and moved away from the window, toward the private bath attached to his quarters. “I have yet to bathe.” He attempted a smirk. “Were you planning on joining me or are you here just to pick at my wounds?”

Bram’s voice lost its levity. “I was there, too, Moloch,” he said. “The burden isn’t only yours to bear.”

Moloch stopped midstride, Bram’s words expelling the air from his lungs. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting his shoulders droop. “You’re right,” he said without looking at his friend. He couldn’t look, not if composure was to be maintained. “I apologize.”

Bram cleared his throat. “Yeah, well… go on, get your bath. Make yourself presentable so we can get this charade over with and get back to the fight. Whoever put the idea in the king’s head to start a war with a festival, and after just one victory? Festivities are for after it’s all said and done, if you ask me. I’d like to get back to my Marna, thank you very much.”

“I’ll return you to her whole, Bram,” Moloch said. “I swear it.”

“Don’t go making promises like that,” Bram said. “I’m too old and too savvy to believe something like fate can be shaped by your hands.”

Moloch let out a long breath and closed his eyes. I really am powerless.

“But,” Bram said, “I suppose if anyone could keep me from falling on a sword, it’d be you.”

He did look at his friend, then. Before him stood a man who’d been by his side since his youth, first as a body guard, then as a friend, and finally, as his second-in-command.

“Thank you, Bram,” Moloch said. “I couldn’t ask for a better man to fight beside me, both in war and in life.”

Bram’s cheeks reddened. The man never could take a compliment. “Do I have to throw you in the bath myself?”

Moloch chuckled at the thought; he wouldn’t put it past Bram to do just that. “I’ll be hungry when I’m done,” he said.

“I’ll meet you in the hall, then,” Bram said. “I know you’ve got bodyguards at the door, but old habits and all that.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Moloch smiled as Bram nodded and stepped back into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Moloch was left in slightly higher spirits, and he finished preparing for the day, dressing in his Eikonian uniform after his bath. He patted his breast pocket where he kept Junia’s most recent note folded and close to his heart. Her promises to stay true to him were a lifeline. Likewise, he retrieved a small wooden cylinder, no longer than his palm, which housed Junia’s self-portrait, a gift she had given him, a gift he treasured. He pulled out the portrait and tried to imagine her auburn hair playing in a breeze, tried to remember what it was like to look into the depths of her eyes, green and vibrant.

“If my father refuses me yet again,” Moloch whispered, “I will finish this war even quicker still, and I will come back to you wielding enough power to withstand any naysayers.”

Still, he held out hope that his father would show a modicum of respect—if not love—for a son who had done everything asked of him and more.

Moloch put away the portrait, the weight of it in his pant pocket as comforting as the knowledge that Junia’s words rested against his chest. Though he could not have her as his wife, he would carry her with him always.

***

Dancer was even less amused by the cheering crowds than Moloch. The pikkan stopped halfway across one of Pytar’s many bridges and blew out through his nostrils.

“Dancer,” Moloch said with a tap of his heels, “keep moving.” He glanced sideways at Bram, who had slowed his own pikkan just behind Dancer and Moloch.

“What’s the hold-up?” Bram asked.

“Dancer isn’t in the mood for showing off.” Moloch shrugged and nodded at the crowds waiting at the end of the bridge.

“We’re leading this parade, Moloch,” Bram said. “We can’t just stop.”

Behind them, the seven soldiers who had survived the Battle at the Western Pass waited in three rows, each one on a stallion borrowed from King Gonnoss’s best stock. Moloch had been the only one to insist on riding his own.

“Perhaps I should have taken another pikkan.” Moloch nudged Dancer again with his heels.

The pikkan responded by shaking his head and trotting forward a few steps, bouncing Moloch in his saddle.

“Steady,” Moloch whispered as he patted Dancer’s neck, the downy black feathers soft beneath his touch. “I didn’t mean it.”

“You spoil that creature rotten,” Bram said.

The pikkan snorted and pawed the stone bridge with a silvery hoof.

Behind and ahead, crowds lined the roads carved into the side of the mountain. The bridges over Pytar’s chasm, however, were clear of parade-goers.

“We can’t stay here all day,” Moloch said, urging Dancer to move. “We’re almost done. I’ll give you a treat once we’re back. Maybe a nice sugar lump.”

Dancer nickered and pranced forward. Relieved, Moloch looked back at his friend as their two pikkans continued across the bridge and the parade resumed. But Bram’s thin-lipped look of disapproval made Moloch frown.

“What?”

Bram scoffed. “A good sandbeast wouldn’t need a bribe.”

“You mean a good sandbeast wouldn’t be persuaded by one,” Moloch said. “They’d lay down and take a nap before doing anything that didn’t suit their fancies.”

 Bram smiled and waved as they approached the crowds. He said through a pasted-on smile, “Still say he’s too pampered.”

Moloch maintained a dignified presentation as they passed the people. “You’re just jealous,” he said, keeping his eyes ahead, his expression neutral.

“Of what?”

“Of Dancer’s superior good looks.” He chanced a look at his friend.

Bram raised his eyebrows and then barked a laugh. “Ha! You’ve got me there, I suppose. I’ll never know why Marna married this ugly snout.”

Moloch cracked a smile.

“I guess,” Bram said, “Dancer’s got us both beat on that account.”

Dancer snorted as if in agreement, and Moloch worked to swallow his own laughter. It had been a long, exhausting day of pretending to celebrate a victory Moloch considered narrow. They’d been lucky for any of them to walk away alive, and many more battles lay in the near future. The Ergonian Army had already begun driving Adikeans from the mountains; in a few days’ time, Moloch and the Eikonian Army would do the same in the foothills and the flatlands bordering Eikon.

The parade had started many levels down the side of the mountain, where Moloch assumed Pytar’s upper middle class resided, and they were working their way past grander entrances carved into the sides of the mountains. The air began to thin just a little, and soon, they were leaving the crowds behind and entering the lower levels of the Pinnacle Fortress where only servants, soldiers, emissaries, and those with official business milled about. The acrobats, dancers, and musicians who had brought up the rear of the parade fell off, restricted from going any farther.

Emissary Ikar met them at the mouth of the cavern that served as the Pinnacle Fortress’s grand stables. He raised his chin as they approached, his haughty expression suitable to his flowing red robes, decorated with gold embroidery. He raised an arm from where it rested on his round middle and gestured toward the inside of the stables. He bowed his head as Moloch passed him.

“Lord Sarrem,” Emissary Ikar said, “I will guide you and your men to a feast with the king. He is eager to send you off with the full weight of his confidence behind you.”

Moloch quirked an eyebrow. The emissary always spoke smoothly, and yet, in the past, Moloch had gotten the distinct impression that the man didn’t like him very much. Surprisingly, there was something of a genuine respect in his tone.

“Let us dismount, and we will gladly follow,” Moloch said, returning a small bow of his head to show the emissary the same respect.

Moloch guided Dancer into the stables. The vaulted cavern ceiling was roughly hewn but it gave way to smoothed walls. Stalls were carved into the rock on either side, leaving a wide and open space for tending the animals. Pikkans and pack animals along with an abundance of hay and dung created an earthy scent that was strangely comforting. There were certain things that were the same no matter if one was at home or abroad, in a palace or humble inn.

Moloch dismounted and pulled a lump of sugar from his pocket; he’d acquired it during breakfast with the assumption that he’d need it. He held out the sugar and let Dancer snatch it from his palm.

“There,” Moloch said, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Dancer nudged him and whinnied.

Moloch rubbed the soft down on Dancer’s forehead. “I don’t have another,” he said.

A stablehand approached and bowed. “May I take your pikkan, my lord?”

Moloch nodded and handed him the reins. “Make sure he gets some rest and water.”

“Yes, my lord.” The stablehand led Dancer to the back of the cavern where others were already starting to rub down the other pikkans with brushes made specifically for their feathered coats.

Moloch turned and paused, taking in the sight of his seven men. They were smiling and laughing, which was good to see. His own somber mood had been reflected in their stances and expressions since they’d returned. He suspected he wasn’t the only one struggling with the question of why he was allowed to live while so many others perished.

Hurran, Cade, Ischal, Baru, Nymus, Tovi, and Ayr: he knew each of them by name and reputation.

Bram came up beside him. “Keep staring like that and you’ll make them think you’ve lost your mind.”

Moloch crossed his arms. “Staring like what?”

“Like a proud mother, that’s what.”

“Well, I am proud,” Moloch said. “I’m proud and grateful and sorry that I didn’t take the time to know the others like I’ve come to know these seven.”

Bram sighed and shook his head. “You can’t know all your men, Moloch, not personally. It’s impossible. You’ll be heading up an entire army. Thousands of men.”

“Perhaps,” Moloch said. “But I can know these. And I can do what I can to protect them, to keep them close.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Emissary Ikar said from just behind Moloch.

Moloch and Bram turned together to face the man. “And what did you hear, Emissary?” Moloch asked, bristling. He didn’t appreciate eavesdropping.

“I heard a leader with Ergonian values, a leader we could follow, even if he is Eikonian by blood,” the emissary said.

Moloch blinked and licked his lips, letting go of retorts meant for criticism. “Thank you,” he said instead.

Emissary Ikar nodded once. “Tell me about them,” he said.

“About my men?” Moloch asked.

“You said you’ve done the work to know them, and I would very much like to hear about them.” Emissary Ikar clasped his hands over his belly so that his sleeves touched and covered even the tips of his fingers. “They are heroes in their own right, after all.”

Moloch frowned. Is this a test?

The Ergonians had tested him many times. He’d hoped that was in the past.

Could he simply want to know?

Either way, Moloch would have to speak. To deny the request could build animosity between himself and the emissaries. He glanced at Bram, who shrugged and nodded, as if to say: why not?

“Of course,” Moloch said, and the emissary nodded his approval. Moloch pointed to each man in turn. “That one, with the curly hair, is Hurran, a good swordsman and loyal. Bram first brought him to my attention.” Moloch turned to Bram. “Didn’t you call him the bookish sort?”

“Yes, my lord,” Bram said, slipping into formal speech since they weren’t alone. “You did well bringing him on.”

Moloch continued. “The man who’s thrown his arm around Hurran is Cade. He’s of a minor noble house, but he chose to be a soldier despite the opportunity to train as an officer.”

“Oh?” Emissary Ikar raised both eyebrows. “Is that common in Eikon?”

“Not very,” Moloch said. “He’s a fighter, not a leader. He knows that and accepts it, and I respect him for it.”

“And that one?” Emissary Ikar asked, pointing to a man who reached for Cade with a hearty slap on the shoulder.

“That’s Ischal,” Moloch said. “Low born. An orphan shortly after birth, inheriting nothing but his father’s surname—Lanwyn. You’ll not find a man with more integrity. Everyone loves him. Wherever he goes, he proves himself worthy both as friend and soldier.”

“Even I didn’t know that bit,” Bram said in an impressed tone. “I knew Ischal came from the streets, but not why he started out there.”

“Yes,” Emissary Ikar said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You do seem to have a remarkable talent for gathering information. How do you do it?”

Moloch smiled at that. That’s a question for a spy to ask, dear emissary, he thought. In truth, he had sources everywhere, even in the darkest of corners, but he could answer the emissary truthfully without revealing that.

“I talked to them,” Moloch said simply. “Asking questions and lending an ear can go a long way when you want to learn about someone.”

A flash of disappointment was quickly replaced with a genteel nod. “Go on, then, my lord,” the emissary said. “I find this quite fascinating.”

Moloch nodded and finished, pointing out each man as he spoke of them. “Baru and Nymus joined the army together at sixteen; they have plenty of experience behind them despite their youth. Tovi was a blacksmith before the army; he joined after his wife was tragically killed in the streets of Patriphos by a mugging gone wrong. He has a daughter that lives with his parents, and he sends almost everything he makes back to them. Ayr is even older than Bram, if you can believe that, but he’s been a soldier so long and he’s so good at it, he can’t imagine doing anything else.”

Emissary Ikar brought forefinger and thumb to his chin, seeming to examine Moloch for a moment. “And will you treat all your men with such respect?” He waved his hand in front of him. “Not that you would know details of their lives, but that you would show enough empathy as to see their humanity first?”

“Of course,” Moloch said without hesitation.

“The king will be glad to know that should our men come under your command in battle, they will be treated thusly.”

“They will be,” Moloch said, the emissary’s questions gaining new meaning. Is that what this was about?

It made sense. While the Ergonian armies were to clear the mountains of Adikean warriors and Moloch’s army was to clear the rest, it was possible the two would overlap in the foothills. And the two armies had not worked together in many centuries. Once the war was over, their collaboration would not end. If the king and his people needed assurances that the two armies would be met with the same level of respect and dignity, Moloch was happy to give it to them.

The emissary offered a small smile. “Gather your men, Lord Sarrem. It is time to enjoy the feast King Gonnoss has planned.” He nodded and retreated back toward the mouth of the cavern where he paused to wait.

“You’re a good man,” Bram said when the emissary was out of ear shot.

“I am a man,” Moloch said. “But a good one? It is my intention to protect those seven, but I will also use them to win battles. Can I do both? Or am I being double-minded?”

“Only a good man would ask that question,” Bram said gently.

Moloch hoped with everything in him that Bram was right.

***

After the feast, there was music and dancing. Moloch left that to the rest. He sipped cool water, avoiding the stronger options available. There was planning to do on the morrow, and he wasn’t interested in hindering his mind and body with too much ambrosia.

Instead, he remained on the edges of the ballroom, indulging in a few sweet delicacies as he waited for the night to end. He allowed thoughts of what must be done, of the war that had not paused simply because he had taken a span to recover and strategize, to remain in the back of his head. It would be many cycles, perhaps more, before he could again shrug off the heavy weight of command.

 But he was not afforded much peace. A servant approached him, bowed, and upheld a small scroll complete with the Sarrem family seal pressed into red wax: the Triangle of Charity and Brotherhood—three arms linked hand to forearm—with an S at the center.

“A mitsahp arrived with this note under an hour ago, my lord,” the servant said. “The aviary sent it straight away, as you requested.”

“Thank the Mitsahp Master for me,” Moloch said as he pinched the rolled-up slip of paper between two fingers and tucked it into his breast pocket with Junia’s letter.

He dismissed the servant but stood unmoving for several moments. A note from his father, small enough to be carried by the smallest messenger bird. That did not bode well. Moloch’s request had been written in earnest, the scroll thick as two fingers.

Moloch’s chest tightened. The air inside thickened, and catching a good breath became harder. His skin burned beneath the pocket as if the note were burning a hole through his shirt.

I cannot read it here, he thought.

He touched his pocket with trembling fingers, and his stomach lurched. He was already losing his composure. Part of him did not want to read whatever his father had sent, but a bigger part of him needed to know, once and for all, if he would begin the war an engaged man or if his deepest desire could only be achieved through the shedding of blood.

It hit him then: that was why he had tried again. If he had to go to war, if he had to kill, he didn’t want Junia’s love tied to any of it.

Moloch fled the ballroom with as much dignity as he could muster, doing his best not to draw any attention to himself. He slipped into the hall and walked briskly half its length, not knowing where he was headed as he sought privacy. Then, the rhythmic clicking of someone else’s shoes alerted him to company. He turned with a scowl he could not contain, expecting to see Bram, taken aback by the sight of Prince Durand, heir to the throne of Ergon.

Heat flooded Moloch’s cheeks as he schooled his expression and quickly bowed. “Your Highness,” he said. “You surprised me. I hope you are well?”

“Thanks to you, yes,” Prince Durand said.

And, indeed, the once sickly prince no longer had a pallid complexion. He stood tall, much stronger than he had been when Moloch first met him. Not being poisoned by one’s cousin tended to do wonders for the skin.

Moloch offered a tight smile; it was the best he could do. “No need to thank me, Your Highness.”

The prince wore an amused look. “I expect I’ll be thanking you for a long time, Lord Sarrem. You did uncover a plot to kill me.”

“All I wanted in exchange,” Moloch said, “was to earn your trust and that of your father. If that is accomplished, I want nothing more.” He shifted from foot to foot and pressed his hands flat against his thighs to keep them from balling into fists as impatience threatened to creep into his tone. That was the last thing he needed.

“You seem… upset,” the prince said.

“I have received a note.” Moloch swallowed hard. “I prefer not to have an audience when I read it.”

Prince Durand nodded thoughtfully before gesturing toward a hall ahead. “The royal access to the rooftop gardens are just this way,” he said. “I do my best thinking there, and with twilight approaching, it will be empty and peaceful. Allow me to aid you in this. It would please me greatly to do so.”

Moloch nodded once. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

The prince held his head high and moved gracefully past Moloch. He really was different with his health returned to him. He led Moloch to an archway of stone; flowers and leaves were expertly carved along its edge, with small birds peeking out between. The details were so fine, it was if they had been real once and turned to stone with the touch of magic.  

Two fortress guards, axes at their belts, stood watch on either side, and the prince gave the order for them to allow Moloch through and to leave him be.

“Do not disturb Lord Sarrem,” Prince Durand said, “and do not allow anyone but him, not even those of royal blood, up top until he returns.” He placed a hand on Moloch’s shoulder. “Find peace, my friend.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Moloch said with a deep bow.

“I’ll take my leave.” The prince bowed his head just slightly in return and left Moloch alone with the guards.

The two men said nothing as Moloch walked past them, beneath the flowers carved of stone, to a thick spiral stair with a railing just as beautifully carved as the archway. Moloch did not stop to admire the intricate work, instead taking the stairs by twos until he burst out into fresh air. He breathed in as a cool breeze brushed his skin; it smelled of flowers and of the musk that saturates a place before it rains.

In the near distance, thunder rumbled.  

Canvas stretched around the lower half of the iron-worked dome and cut the worst of the wind, but the gale buffeted the sturdy fabric like a child testing a drum. Straight ahead, to the south, an iron gate barred a balcony that ran the entire perimeter of the garden outside the protection of the dome.

A wash of twilight’s reds and oranges colored the sky beyond the top of the dome and cast a reddish glow to the garden. All around Moloch, a long and low bed of red flowers set aside the highest point of the garden for royalty. Raised beds of all sorts of herbs and flowers created patterns stretching outward from there, all the way to the ironwork.

Moloch held up the note before him, broke the seal, and slowly unrolled it. In his father’s scratchiest handwriting, the great Nibal Sarrem cut at him with every syllable: It will be as I said.

That was it.

Moloch gritted his teeth and crumbled the slip of paper in his fist. “I’m sick of your games,” he growled at the sky, at his father, at the Sustainer, if there was a god at all. At times like these, he wasn’t so sure.

From somewhere he could not see, thunder clashed as if in reply.

Moloch squeezed his eyes shut as his body tensed to the point of trembling. He had no choice. He had to play the game, and play it well, or else lose Junia.

Anger boiled in his veins; he couldn’t stand still. Tension gave way to pure rage. He strode through the garden to the iron gate, threw it open, and stepped onto the thin balcony and into much stronger winds. A chest-high stone wall created a safe walkway and separated him from a sheer drop off the side of the mountain.

Gusts tore at his clothes and whipped his hair as he stepped up to a flat stone meant for a bench and stood upon it so that he could scream into the full might of the wind. There was no one to see, no one to judge. He stretched out his arms to either side and let his fury and grief pour out of his mouth and scrape his throat raw. He could not hear his own cry in the howling gale.

To the west, black clouds billowed. White lightning cracked and cut a ragged line across the oncoming storm. Moloch hurled the crumpled note into open air, and the wind caught it instantly, rushing it along currents flowing east, where the sky was still gentle with twilight.

He had emptied his soul into the wind through a shout that left him breathless. Moloch slumped forward, resting his forearms on the top of the thick wall, steadying himself against the strength of nature as she threatened to topple him. But if he could stand against his father and against the war to come, he could stand against it.

It’s just the beginning, he thought. Just the beginning and already I’m crumbling.

Far below him a roiling sea of steam stretched from east to west. The southern stretch of the Radelle Mountains were silhouetted on the other side of that wide chasm, and connecting Pytar and the North to them was the last Ancient Bridge.

Night was coming upon him as the worst of the storm drew nearer, and with it came a chill that saturated him to the bone. Thunder clapped, the sharp, quick burst of sound ricocheting off the mountains as lightning illuminated the darkening clouds. The white surface of the wide and wonderous Ancient Bridge glowed bright with every strike of lightning, and in those momentary flashes, the steam curling and rolling and clawing at the underside of the bridge seemed even angrier than the clouds.

A frigid drop of rain hit Moloch’s cheek, driven horizontal by the wind, stinging when it hit. Another followed, and another, each one smarting upon impact. But he stayed.

“What am I to do?” he asked, scoffing. “Be a good man? Can a good man win this war when there is evil on one side and people like my father on the other?”

Seven men left of forty, not including him and Bram. How many times could he survive those odds, and without the guarantee of love on the other side?

The next lightning strike was followed by thunder close enough to vibrate through his core. Moloch closed his eyes, wanting to envision Junia, seeing only the dead. They sacrificed themselves for a continent united under Eikon, under one king.

Isn’t that what I fight for, too? A Leyumin united under Eikon, no longer torn apart by constant war?

The Prophecy of the First Oracle, that beacon of light that spoke of a peaceful future under one kingdom… everyone with any ounce of power seemed hell bent on making it come to pass with their nation as the chosen Unitor. Moloch wasn’t so sure he believed in prophecies, but if there really was to be a Unitor, he would rather it not be the Adikeans.

He tried to imagine a better world, a world he’d had a hand in creating.

Would it be worth it without Junia?

Guilt, like the pelting rain, stung him.

“Would a good man have a thought like that, Bram?” he whispered to himself.

Lightning broke through the clouds to strike a distant peak to the west. It seemed right, to stand still as the storm rolled in, to allow the cold rain to drench him. He watched it overwhelm everything in its path. It banished all semblance of peace. It was terrifying, demanding recognition of power. It was determined, unwilling to break, ready to destroy. It was unapologetic and unafraid.

The realization hit Moloch like a hammer to the gut:

“The war must be won for my life to be worth living,” he said. “And I can’t do it with guilt or distractions.”

He set his jaw and turned his back on the Ancient Bridge, stepping off the stone bench and striding back into the gardens, pushing through the storm. Bright lightning struck the tip of the ironwork dome, sending sparks raining down before him.

Moloch hardened himself against all emotion and honed in on the focus needed to get what he wanted. When it was done, he could be good. Until then, he had to become the storm.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *