Anthem's Fall (12 page)

Vengelis turned and dodged Darien’s incoming blow with staggering agility and countered the Royal Guard’s strike by sending a knee straight to his stomach.

“Gah!” Vengelis roared. A surprise impact sunk into his back, striking his left kidney with surgical precision. Master Tolland had entered the fray. Like Vengelis, Master Tolland was of Royal descent, his body lean and hard as steel. Vengelis turned just in time to duck away from a potentially crushing blow to his chin.

“You’re getting sloppy, Vengelis!” Master Tolland roared over the wind and burst forward. “Too many nights in Sejeroreich!”

Vengelis smiled and engaged him. The flurry of attacks that ensued between them was without restraint. The two warriors battled brutally, the speed of the strikes accelerating with each passing moment. From below, the two beaten giants Hoff and Darien heaved for breath as around their thick legs snow melted.

“Mother of god,” Darien muttered, his hands resting on his knees, strikes echoing across the barren lands from overhead.

Hoff blinked as he tried futilely to track the movement of the two Royal warriors—old and young— across the sky.

“Vengelis . . . crazy.” The Lord General panted.

Darien nodded. “Master Tolland, too.”

There would be no draw. Even in a training session such as this, it would not stop until blood was drawn or someone submitted. That was the way of the Sejero warriors of old, and that was the way of Prince Vengelis Epsilon. Every spar he entered ended in blood, and every duel he fought would end in his death before his submission. To Sejero warriors, fighting was not a sport. It was life. Or it was death. In a world where the very cohesion of society depended upon the raw power of the greatest few, those few regarded that power with the utmost solemnity.

Vengelis had been able to best the aging Master Tolland for many years now, but he still believed the man had more to teach him. For Vengelis, unlike many of the Sejero soldiers of the day, there was no laid-back, contented posttraining stage in life—no juncture at which a warrior could proclaim aptitude and rely upon the tutelage of a former education. Refinements could always be made. New techniques could always be discovered. The day a warrior stopped bettering himself through ferocious and disciplined training was the day he witnessed his own defeat. There was no room for the soft among the strong. As a young teenager, Vengelis and his compassionless fists had proved this to many former champions before their swaggering challenges stopped coming.

Now in the prime of his fighting life at twenty-one years old, Vengelis had not been challenged in years.

Despite his celebrity and prestige, Vengelis liked returning to the harshness of Mount Karlsbad for days or weeks at a time to spar with the only worthy partner on Anthem: the eccentric and mysterious Master Tolland. Vengelis had traveled north with Lord General Hoff and Darien three days previous. As always, he had issued strict orders to the Imperial Army not to interrupt their stay. Vengelis Epsilon’s orders were always followed.

“I think you’re losing your touch, old man,” Vengelis said as he locked arms with Master Tolland.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Master Tolland murmured. Now over sixty years old, Master Tolland was only a shadow of his former physical self. Nevertheless, he could always provide a challenge for Vengelis—an accomplishment few could claim. Even as Vengelis taunted, Master Tolland nearly caught him in a leg lock. Vengelis rolled out of it, defending the ligaments of his knee with practiced grace.

“You leave your legs open for submission too oft—” Master Tolland sunk below a furious high kick. “Good!”

Vengelis smirked. “And to think, you would have me
hide
my power.”

“Of course I would not have you hide it. I would have you appreciate the nature of your Sejero gifts.”

“You think I don’t appreciate my power?” Vengelis shouted, burying a fist into Master Tolland’s raised forearms. The deafening sound of knuckle against arm echoed for miles in every direction.

“I would have you appreciate the”—Master Tolland dodged another blow— “
Effects
and ramifications of your actions.”

“When will you ever give up on lecturing me? You and your conservative perspectives on Sejero strength. I’ll never understand your stale theories on leadership and morality. You know, some of my generals in Sejeroreich say you lack the courage to embrace Sejero power. They say you’re frail, though never in my hearing range.”

“And tell me, have any one of these ruthless and sedentary generals ever left the warmth of their palace to issue me a formal challenge?”

Vengelis smirked. “They may be sedentary, but they’re not stupid.”

“A sense of relativism is not weakness, Vengelis. It is strength. It takes courage to consider all ends, and not simply believe in what you choose or what you’re taught.”

“I’m a realist,” Vengelis grunted, trying to catch Master Tolland in an arm bar. “I place my convictions in power, and power alone. All other beliefs are conditional upon the might to see them through. Those without the strength of fist have no right to word of voice.”

“You’re not cruel, Vengelis,” Master Tolland panted. “In no way overtly sadistic or tyrannical like many of your forefathers. But one day I hope you are able to rise above the politicians and sycophants of Sejeroreich. You could be so much more.”

In the midst of their titanic spar across the sky, both master and former student suddenly pulled away from one another and looked into the distant horizon. Still far away, someone was approaching from the south.

“Were you supposed to be somewhere today?” Master Tolland asked through heaving breaths, his hands on his hips in exhaustion.

“No,” Vengelis said, squinting into the horizon and breathing steadily. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“What do you think?” Master Tolland asked.

Vengelis laughed. In all his time spent on Mount Karlsbad, he had never seen Master Tolland host a guest aside from himself.

“Whoever it is, they’re certainly an Imperial First Class, and moving at top speed.”

Vengelis nodded. “If it’s someone looking to become a student of yours, I’ll certainly provide them with a lesson.”

“I don’t think it is.” Master Tolland glared uncertainly at the tiny figure in the horizon.

Hoff and Darien, seeing the spar had stopped, ascended to them as Vengelis and Master Tolland hovered freely a few thousand feet over the desolate glaciers and snow plains.

“This is something new. A draw?” Hoff called. He was hunched over slightly, still shaken from the punch he took from Vengelis.

“Someone is coming from the south.” As the words left Master Tolland, the tiny black dot grew larger in the cloudless sky.

They all simultaneously began to move in the direction of the dot. As the four great warriors drew closer, they saw the visitor was indeed an Imperial First Class soldier. Like Darien, he was armored in the raiment of a Royal Guard. The messenger came to a stop before them and wheezed violently, appearing on the verge of losing consciousness from his maximum speed flight.

“Here is someone who has made a large mistake in judgment,” Vengelis said. “I gave explicit orders not to be disturbed.”

“M-my lord Vengelis.” The man gasped for breath. “Your father Emperor Faris calls for your immediate return to Sejeroreich! The capital is under attack. Anthem is under attack!”

Vengelis’s face constricted, his lips thinning. “Explain yourself.”

The messenger coughed repeatedly and threw up his arms in exasperation. “We aren’t entirely sure. From what I understand, powerful machines have demolished Municera and the Twin Cities. My lord, millions have been killed. The machines are in Sejeroreich now. It is open war.”

Vengelis’s eyes narrowed. “Machines?”

“Yes, my lord. Machines.”

“What the hell has the army been doing?”

“The Imperial First Class has risen in Sejeroreich’s defense. The battle is underway as we speak, my lord.”

“We must go at once,” Master Tolland spoke calmly and looked to the south. “Our path will take us past Municera and the Twin Cities. Perhaps we will be able to learn something about this attack on the—”

Vengelis exploded southward, splintering through the frigid sky and accelerating out of sight into the blue almost instantly. Master Tolland was immediately after him. Hoff and Darien looked speechlessly from the southern horizon to the winded messenger.

“If this is some sort of trick, it will cost you your life,” Hoff said.

“I wish it were, Lord General Hoff. I wish it were.”

Both giants hurried in the trail of the two great warriors, leaving the exhausted messenger alone.

Vengelis roared southward, countless miles falling away beneath the deafening sound of his speed. The featureless plains of northern snow soon gave way to vast frozen tundra and thick boreal forest as he flew ever south. Here and there, broad striations and wide craters dug deep into the very curvature of the planet: enduring scars from the uncivilized weapons of the ancient struggle against the Zergos that led to the rise of the Sejero. Confusion claimed him as he exploded across his pocked and marred land.

Vengelis tried to make sense of what he had been told.
Millions have been killed
. There was no logic in the messenger’s words. How could this be true? Municera was home to dozens of Imperial First Class soldiers. Surely they would have risen to defend the city?

As he neared Municera airspace, the sky before him was brushed with an undulating ocean of clouds that separated the radiant blue of the upper atmosphere from the concealed lands far below. Vengelis lingered in the serenity above the clouds for a moment before plunging toward the ground and directly into the top of a brilliantly white towering cumulus.

The dazzling sunlight instantly dissipated into obscure gray shadow as Vengelis descended through the mist. Water from the cloud’s precipitation beaded on his armor and face, gathering and rolling off him in plump drops. Briefly he was blind within the veil. Then, through the bits of parting cloud below, he caught fleeting glimpses of the land beneath.

“W-what?” Vengelis murmured aloud in disbelief.

The distinct smell of pungent sulfur and smoke filled his nose as he attempted to see through the shifting cloud. A faint heat emanated from the land far below. The obfuscating clouds that engulfed him transitioned in color to a dense and unnatural gray-brown. Through the cloud curtain, jet-black streaks and cindery red flames flashed from the lands below. The sight aroused in Vengelis a sensation of descending from a shining heaven into a surreal hell.

Vengelis penetrated the bottom of the cloud cover head first, and at once he beheld Municera. The sight shook Vengelis, and he lost focus, falling momentarily into the noxious air, but he quickly steadied himself. He rotated from horizon to horizon in horror. The city—if it could still be called as such—was completely devastated. Blocks and avenues were unrecognizably scorched, raging fires burning in every direction. Flames leapt from collapsed buildings and severed gas lines, vehicles sat overturned and charred, ruined skyscrapers and street corners were pulsing with heat like glowing embers. Acrid smoke and ash hung thick and blocked the daylight. The only illumination came from smoldering fires far below. It was as though a nightmarish underworld had risen in the city’s stead.

“
How
?” Vengelis mouthed in disbelief.

He floated alone far above the city, taking shallow breaths, attempting to rationalize what he was seeing. He had lived in Municera during his early teenage years, and in a sense considered the city a home. All of the landmarks of the great Municera were barely identifiable in the carnage. The Grand Arena, a triumphant marvel of his empire’s engineering, was torn down to its skeletal frame; bits of the stadium seating and tall walls reached out of a sweltering bed of sheer dark flames.

After what felt like a very long time, Master Tolland descended silently alongside Vengelis and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“We have no time to contemplate this, Vengelis. We must make for the capital.” Master Tolland paused, clearly also shaken. The fires from far below reflected in his troubled eyes. “A battle may still be underway in Sejeroreich. If there is, they’ll need you desperately.”

“Yes,” Vengelis said numbly, his arms shaking with fury and shock.

“Your people need you with a clear head, Vengelis. Rage will dull your senses. You
must
keep your composure, now more than ever before!”

Without another word, a deafening boom echoed across the hellscape as Vengelis burst toward the south once more. Master Tolland hurried after him, but Vengelis pulled away within moments. Vengelis seethed as he accelerated southward across the skies. He knew he was the greatest warrior of Anthem—the purest of Sejero blood and the strongest of mind. All knew Vengelis Epsilon was the most powerful warrior of the modern age, perhaps the most powerful warrior of any age. The supreme sentinel of Anthem had been in the middle of nowhere training and arguing philosophies as a holocaust tore into his world. He had not been there when his people needed him most, and that truth was poison.

Vengelis clung to the hope that it was not too late.

Without even a glance downward, Vengelis soared over the rising carnage of the ruined Twin Cities. What if he was too late? What if there was nothing left to protect?

As he moved south Vengelis could see the imposing towers of Sejeroreich rise on the horizon. Above them, the sun loomed at high noon, and the sky was clear save for several pillars of black smoke that hung over the capital. From his distance Sejeroreich looked to be nearly in the same condition as the other burning cities he had bypassed. But in Sejeroreich many towers still stood, a testament to the hardened defenses of the city. He passed over columns of spires, the sound of screams and wails mixing with the indiscernible destruction. Many skyscrapers were gone, vanished into piles of rubble in the streets.

The sounds of war raged, and bedlam had taken hold of the city, but Sejeroreich was not completely lost.