already fallen. Their mission, their reason for coming here, failed before it had even begun.
***
A scratching. A clawing. Quiet, subtle, like the rasping of tiny nails on a wall in a far corner of a house. Lawrence opened his eyes and, just like that, the noise was gone. Had he imagined it? He listened, straining in the gloom of the restaurant booth to hear for it again, but all that reached his ears were the sounds of low, heavy breathing; the fitful moans of other homesick warriors at slumber, minds plagued at night by the horrors that haunted their waking days.
What had Lawrence expected, all that time ago, when they had stood, proud and brave, before the Portal atop the Beacon? To walk out the other side into fields of green? Shining towers of glass and gold? Pretty maidens charging forth with garlands of flowers to drape about their necks? Perhaps. Perhaps that was what he’d thought they’d deserved. Hell, he’d have been surprised if they hadn’t all felt the same after all they’d been through. A nightmare. Horrors beyond the wildest imagination. Even now, who knew how long after, he could still hear the screeching metallic cries of the Centaurs; still smell the sour tang of sulphur.
But back then, at least, back on the battlefields around Merethia, they’d had a purpose. They’d had a goal. And of course, they’d had him . The blinding light. The warming glow, the presence, that pervaded all about, filling them with hope, with strength, hearts a-flutter with pride. Unconsciously, his hand found the sturdy, reassuring grip of his cannon, the metal never tarnishing, always warm, its surface faintly aglow with its golden sheen of power.
But what did they have now? The misery of his predicament blew through the nostalgia in a heartbeat. What now? No goal, no purpose, no drive. Nothing, save a hellish struggle for survival in a world long since lost. Fie, how he wished he’d never joined the Tulador Guard. Wished he’d stayed at home, in his village. Taken over his father’s forge. Plucked up the courage to venture down the tavern, lean over the bar and tell Tanya exactly why he’d been staring at her over his pints of ale all these years… Even now he could picture her dark, curly locks; hear the melodious laughter that used to ring throughout the tavern of a night. The years they’d spent together, the times they’d shared, yet never had he made the move. A lifetime of wasted chances.
That scratching again, clawing, insistent, on the very edge of his hearing. Again, as soon as he focused, it was gone. He shook his head. Tiredness, no doubt; the day’s march, lugging that noxious smelling fuel back here, had obviously worn him out more than he’d realised. His limbs felt fine; food was no issue here, entire huge rooms of this building filled with metal tins of preserved meats and legumes. And the work wasn’t usually too hard in itself either, most of the time being cramped up here, safe and locked away from the horrors of the world outside, with only the weekly forays in search of fuel to power the lights and gates of their refuge.
No, the weariness here was mental, stemmed from their environs; the steel, the concrete, the ruined, twisted vehicles and the roaming hordes of the once-men. For a lowly guardsman of Tulador, used to the bright sunshine and the rolling, green fields, this vast city felt claustrophobic, threatening. The tall buildings that loomed like man-made mountains seemed to pen them in on all sides. The cold, tiled floors and harsh, artificial lights of this complex they’d barricaded themselves within each night. It all felt too alien; bereft of life.
Bereft of hope.
Hope. Yes, that was Lord Arbistrath’s favourite word of late. Hold fast to hope, he told them. Keep in mind the
***
A scratching. A clawing. Quiet, subtle, like the rasping of tiny nails on a wall in a far corner of a house. Lawrence opened his eyes and, just like that, the noise was gone. Had he imagined it? He listened, straining in the gloom of the restaurant booth to hear for it again, but all that reached his ears were the sounds of low, heavy breathing; the fitful moans of other homesick warriors at slumber, minds plagued at night by the horrors that haunted their waking days.
What had Lawrence expected, all that time ago, when they had stood, proud and brave, before the Portal atop the Beacon? To walk out the other side into fields of green? Shining towers of glass and gold? Pretty maidens charging forth with garlands of flowers to drape about their necks? Perhaps. Perhaps that was what he’d thought they’d deserved. Hell, he’d have been surprised if they hadn’t all felt the same after all they’d been through. A nightmare. Horrors beyond the wildest imagination. Even now, who knew how long after, he could still hear the screeching metallic cries of the Centaurs; still smell the sour tang of sulphur.
But back then, at least, back on the battlefields around Merethia, they’d had a purpose. They’d had a goal. And of course, they’d had him . The blinding light. The warming glow, the presence, that pervaded all about, filling them with hope, with strength, hearts a-flutter with pride. Unconsciously, his hand found the sturdy, reassuring grip of his cannon, the metal never tarnishing, always warm, its surface faintly aglow with its golden sheen of power.
But what did they have now? The misery of his predicament blew through the nostalgia in a heartbeat. What now? No goal, no purpose, no drive. Nothing, save a hellish struggle for survival in a world long since lost. Fie, how he wished he’d never joined the Tulador Guard. Wished he’d stayed at home, in his village. Taken over his father’s forge. Plucked up the courage to venture down the tavern, lean over the bar and tell Tanya exactly why he’d been staring at her over his pints of ale all these years… Even now he could picture her dark, curly locks; hear the melodious laughter that used to ring throughout the tavern of a night. The years they’d spent together, the times they’d shared, yet never had he made the move. A lifetime of wasted chances.
That scratching again, clawing, insistent, on the very edge of his hearing. Again, as soon as he focused, it was gone. He shook his head. Tiredness, no doubt; the day’s march, lugging that noxious smelling fuel back here, had obviously worn him out more than he’d realised. His limbs felt fine; food was no issue here, entire huge rooms of this building filled with metal tins of preserved meats and legumes. And the work wasn’t usually too hard in itself either, most of the time being cramped up here, safe and locked away from the horrors of the world outside, with only the weekly forays in search of fuel to power the lights and gates of their refuge.
No, the weariness here was mental, stemmed from their environs; the steel, the concrete, the ruined, twisted vehicles and the roaming hordes of the once-men. For a lowly guardsman of Tulador, used to the bright sunshine and the rolling, green fields, this vast city felt claustrophobic, threatening. The tall buildings that loomed like man-made mountains seemed to pen them in on all sides. The cold, tiled floors and harsh, artificial lights of this complex they’d barricaded themselves within each night. It all felt too alien; bereft of life.
Bereft of hope.
Hope. Yes, that was Lord Arbistrath’s favourite word of late. Hold fast to hope, he told them. Keep in mind the
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