Chapter 44
The problem with the modular construction of the colony on Venus was the same problem for Orleander now, as it might be for some other invader in the future, and that was simply that the bridges which connected the modular platforms became obvious and dangerous choke-points in times of conflict. Looking out of the archive window and down towards the central bridge, it quickly became clear that escape wasn’t an option; he would have to either fight or hide. Downstairs, the screams of skirmish raged through the time-honoured halls, and following that, the spraying of blood and the soaking of steps.
‘Champion,’ the archival brother said, clasping at the book in his hands and nearly working himself to tears with fear. ‘I have a daughter. She is only eight. If…’ The Son of Mirunus and the Prince of the Anaxi extended a silencing hand and found the elder’s shoulder.
‘Be still, brother. Find somewhere to hide if you will, and don’t make a sound until I or some other of my allies return. For you, there is no shame in hiding. Your purpose is here.’ Orleander reached over and pressed the book in the archival brother’s hands to his heart. ‘And your task is no less important because it requires no bloodshed. We are all relying on you to find me that name. Now go.’ A newfound sense of determination came across the old man’s face, and a pride to live flickered in his eyes. (It is not such a bad thing to be afraid of death, but having a reason to live is better still.) He skirted along the edge of the chamber and ascended a ladder to a higher floor, which he pulled then up behind himself.
Orleander drew his sword in one hand, and in his other, he reached for the rarer steel, closing his eyes in frustration to remember that he had gifted Abigail his gun earlier that day as a self-defence tool. In that case, he thought, I shall have to be silent as the watchful stars, as the very god when he does not care to hear our whines. He removed his boots and felt the warm wood beneath him, and against the fire-resistant cladding, his bare feet were as lithe and silent as a gliding mountain cat.
Before him, down the hallway and towards the central steps, some other archival brother had bled to death, and from under his robes, the slash of a blade. Orleander knelt and closed the poor activists’ eyes, allowing warm shadows to rest them. No guns, he thought, pairing this with the assessment that in the carnage below, he had not heard anything burst. An improvised mission, perhaps, or at least an ill-equipped one. And then, as he peered over into the hall below and watched some Crestfallen be ushered out in peace, Orleander saw for himself Merilion, and that warning in his head rang out like a grim tocsin. ‘Be careful of him, Champion, for he has not once been beaten.’ In any case, Orleander himself was outnumbered, and although the sounds of struggle could be heard echoing around the archive, he had not seen any of his own men alive. He hurried off in another direction, better to avoid for now, and bolster his forces.
In this moment, along this corridor, the Son of Mirunus dispatched some raider, whose name was Eli and whose family would never hear his laughter again. He called out for Orleander to stop moving and face execution, but he wasn’t prepared for the Son of Mirunus to be so skilled, nor so quick, and as soon as he had thrust forward, his neck was splayed, and blood fell to the floor. Orleander then peered around him, ensured they were alone, and crouched over him. The man was from Ithra, although the bronzing of his skin said he had been here for at least a little while. The Ithereen never were the best soldiers. But what could they want from the archives? What could possibly be here worth discovering? Orleander stood, and in that moment realised that survival here was not so important as prevention, that stalling for long enough that backup arrives was the most important task imaginable, even if it required his own life as a trade.
With that bleak thought, Orleander took a breath, a thought of the Matrifon, Abigail, and he said a little prayer, although in that moment, he knew not to whom. Protect her, he said quietly, let me protect them all. He found two men, natives of Venus, hidden in an archive room, and struggling over the corpse of a dead invader. Orleander called on them, although they were only young, and they followed him dutifully, and so they were three. Next, an archival brother in training, who was younger and more spry than any brother Orleander had ever seen, and he joined them with a small dagger of some kind, and then they were four. In between sudden violence, Orleander soon found himself resurrecting a small counter-militia from the ashes of the archives, and there was much fighting and bloodshed then.
By and by, he came upon a hallway in which several men guarded a small, elderly man covered head to toe in some grass-like robe, and there was Merilion before them. Tall, hair as black as night, even under the blazing penny-sun which watched keenly through the smashed window. His sword was immaculate and freshly sharpened, and the steel in the sunlight was itself alive. ‘Protect the archivist, if you are outnumbered, then kill him,’ he commanded, and in the meanwhile executed some visitor. Orleander charged ahead, but was so much outnumbered that he stood no chance of reaching Merilion; even with the small militia backing him, they would likely die here.
‘Conjure what fighting spirit you have left in you, Venusians, and for your service, I will see to it that the Matrifon herself delivers you into the holy basilica herself.’ These words appeared to do the trick, and an angry roar sounded from behind, and soon the entire hall was locked into combat of the bloodiest kind. Being the only professional warrior among them, the Son of Mirunus was in a league of his own, and even despite his strength and skill, which was enough for five or six men, they were outclassed and soon surrounded, and meanwhile, Merilion had sneaked away with the archivist.
The men were pushed back, and Orleander did everything he could, but these archivists were simply no match for the attacking raiders, and soon he gave the order to retreat. The small force ran out of the building and found only more bloodshed, and meanwhile, Orleander, in an attempt to provide them time to flee, fought to the last breath, leading as many as he could up the stairs he had recently come down, and away from his allies. A crude steel blade found his shoulder there, and another clipped his shin, but he was still fighting strong. Now that his people had gone beyond his sight, and he could do no more for them, the time was now to flee properly, and so he broke into a sprint throughout the archives until he was quite alone.
He took a breath in a small alcove and wiped the sweat from his forehead. At the best of times, it was too hot, and now with all this energy, he was baking alive. A drink of water in an empty room, and another moment to catch his breath. The wound on his arm bled. Before, the decision to give his life for those people had been a momentary action and not one which he put thought into beyond a gut reaction, but now that he was alone with only his thoughts and fate staring back at him, it was another matter. I may very well be about to die, he thought, clutching his sword by the hilt. A shiver crept down his spine. He had forgotten to tell Abigail about this feeling in his boast all those months ago, the dread, the raw terror that approaches alongside the inevitable. Twice now he had met that fear, and twice he had survived it, but this time… He moved into the corridor, and the world began to slow. There would be fireflies on Earth now, lighting peak to peak and hill to hill.
Orleander slayed one, and his arm was cut, and there was another on his left, and their eyes met, and their swords followed, and it was as if his hand were guided somehow by some forgotten patron of the days of old, and Orleander, guided by these forgotten hands, slipped another blow, and found himself into another room, chased by not one but several raiders. Before him, Merilion, perhaps sensing that there wasn’t but time to fulfil his nefarious acts, had begun to destroy everything in sight, not raiding the archives, but destroying them, burning every storage and every room, and every archivist and every visitor, and even on the floor, there dead was a single crestfallen, and she was only a girl. She had been laid straight and dignified, and there were tears in Merilion’s eyes for his mistake, and he and Orleander locked blades around the burning room.
And so it was that the Son of Mirunus locked blades with Merilion, who was himself the heir of the Heramaegi and fire seemed to creep up on them both as the very death. ‘Retreat, men! We have no time to waste anymore on sadness and misery.’ Merilion commanded and overpowered Orleander with a flourish that could not be matched. ‘Champion, you have been lied to! Cease this foolish bravery, and I will tell you what I have found, please. I do not wish for either of us to die this day.’ But Orleander saw beyond his words and knew that for them to retreat must mean that reinforcements were just beyond the pale. He squeezed his eyes together for a moment and found hopeful focus, although his consciousness began to slip.
His hands were guided by a supernatural presence, and he found his feet beneath him, and as though puppeteered by that unseen force, he pressed himself forward in the face of death. ‘You have castrated the memory of this planet, and although it is not my home, I will do my best to honour it.’ Orleander lunged with what felt like the very last of his breath, and he felt that terminal exhale leave his lungs even before the counterattack came. Merilion tripped him and put him to the floor, and as they traded blow for perhaps final blow, Orleander managed to push his blade through the man’s forearm. Merilion cried out in anguish and agony, and soon was dragged away in his moment of rage. Orleander looked down and plunged deep into him was a large steel blade, which pinned him to the floor. His eyes fell, and the smoke seemed to consume him.