Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

The warforged took a threatening step forward. “Do not speak of him. He was one of the few of you who was actually worth something.”

“Why? Because he created you? Because he created that machine you will use to kill thousands of innocent people? Innocent children? Where do they fall into your argument? Are they just as useless? Their whole lives ahead of them? Some of them might have become artists, inventors, saints. If not for you, one of them could become a great healer and save hundreds of lives.”

“And some will become murderers. Some will become rapists.”

Wren felt the anger building in him. “So you are to be the one to judge them? Do you think yourself a god, to take that upon yourself?”

“I do it in the name of the Shadow.”

“No!” Wren shouted. “If you plan on doing this, take responsibility for your actions. Do not shrug your shoulders and say your god demanded it. You are doing it. You!”

“It is for my god,” he repeated.

Wren stared at him, suddenly feeling tired. Sometimes you just had to realize there were arguments you couldn’t win, that no matter how you put it, how much you argued, there was no way to get through to a person.

Wren stood there, feeling the rumbling through the soles of his feet, and realized that the warforged was probably thinking the exact same thing. Who was he to say who was right?

Wren caught a hint of movement behind the warforged. It looked like Bren was waking up. Perfect. Was he outnumbered two to one now? Maybe not. The warforged must have knocked him out in the first place.

Unless one of the earth tremors knocked him from his feet.

It didn’t matter. Wren wasn’t going to stand by while this idiot slaughtered thousands of innocent people.

The ground pitched beneath his boots. He staggered again, managing to stay on his feet. The warforged fell to one knee, then quickly tried to right itself.

Bren grabbed the warforged around the neck from behind, gripping it with his adamantine arm. The warforged tried to turn on the human, ready to stab him over the shoulder, but Wren stepped forward, activating an infusion beneath his breath.

He laid a hand on the warforged’s chest and pushed, immediately feeling heat sinking into its metal body. The warforged lifted its head and screamed as its chest started to glow orange, the heat spreading throughout his body. It traveled into Bren’s arm. Wren saw the human gritting his teeth against the pain, but he didn’t let go.

The wood at the warforged’s elbow and knee joints burst into flame, and still Wren kept on. He channeled all the power he could into the construct, keeping back only a tiny amount of energy.

That remaining energy he pushed into his free hand. When he felt the heat fading from his palm, he lifted it off and touched the other hand against the warforged’s face.

Pure cold surged into the metal body with an explosion of steam. Wren felt the faceplate crack at the sudden change in temperature, then it exploded beneath his palm, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. Wren staggered back with a cry of pain, his hand bleeding from the tiny metal shards that tore into his palm. Bren shielded his face and turned away.

After all the pieces had fallen, Wren turned back. The warforged was on its knees, headless, its arms hanging lifelessly. Bren lifted a booted foot and kicked the carcass hard in the back. The body toppled over, and when it smashed against the stone flooring, it shattered into fist-sized chunks of frozen metal.

Wren turned his attention to the eldritch machine. He put both hands on it and used the last of his energy to see into the depths of its workings. He saw what he was looking for. He closed his eyes and broke the pathways from the dragonshard to the rest of the machine.

There came a click as the shard was extruded slowly from the hole like an animal laying an unholy egg. Wren pulled it out the rest of the way.

The rumbling beneath his feet stopped.

Wren breathed a sigh of relief and stood. Bren stared at him.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“What did it do?”

“I think it was eating away Skyway’s link to Syrania. So the island was doing what it would naturally do-sink with gravity. Now that it’s stopped, the link will reestablish itself. We should be fine.”

Wren saw Bren’s look of relief.

“You didn’t know?”

He shook his head. “Tiel told me it was for something else.”

“Ah, Tiel. I think you’d better find yourself a new boss. He’s … no longer with us.”

Bren stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in wonderment. “Cutter?”

Wren nodded. “Cutter.”

To his surprise, Bren grinned. “Good for him,” he said, then headed to the door.

“Hold,” said Wren.

Bren paused and looked over his shoulder “What?”

Wren hesitated, then sighed and shook his head. He didn’t have the energy. “Nothing.”

Bren nodded, then disappeared through the door. Wren could hear Col calling for him somewhere in the house above. He took one last look around, then bent over and picked up the defunct eldritch machine.

Dawn

Cutter opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The familiar ball of lead was still there, still sitting in his stomach like a cancerous growth devouring him from the inside.

Wren had been right. The pain didn’t go away with Tiel’s death. It just meant Cutter didn’t have anywhere to channel it, that he had to face it.

It was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

He’d been willing to die in pursuit of his revenge. He hadn’t cared if he lived or died, just as long as he avenged Rowen’s death. But now that it was over, now that he had killed Tiel, something had changed. He found that he actually wanted to live. He wanted to remember Rowen, to make sure no one ever forgot her. But to do that, he needed to get over her death, to move on with his life.

And he couldn’t do that where he was.

He looked around the room. His belongings would fit into his leather rucksack. He could go now-today-if he wanted to.

So why didn’t he?

He looked out the window at the steady rain. Nothing was holding him here, nothing except the ghost of Rowen.

She would want him to go, to make something else of his life.

He sat up and rubbed his face. The leather satchel was hanging over the bedpost. He grabbed it and stuffed his clothes inside, then opened the chest and took out what little money he had left. He left the books; they weren’t his.

All he had of Rowen’s belongings was a simple silver necklace. It was her favorite. She said once that she intended to give it to her first daughter. That wouldn’t happen now, but Cutter thought that if he ever had children, ever had a daughter, he would give it to her. Rowen would have liked that.

He paused with one hand on the door handle, taking one last look around the soulless room.

Goodbye, Rowen.

He pulled open the door and walked out, closing it quietly behind him. He didn’t know where he was going, but he felt lighter, the heaviness in his stomach less pervasive.

He would simply see where the road took him.

Wren knocked on the door and waited impatiently. He glanced around, shivering in the unseasonably chill air. The rain fell in a fine mist that coated everything, seeping into the very bones. The past few days had been exhausting. The Watch Commander had wanted to arrest him and Cutter for the deaths of his men. It had taken the intervention of Col to get them off the hook, and he only managed it when he put together a file on the dead men and their association with Jana.

Unfortunately, Col had also been responsible for having the entire story swept under the carpet. Admittedly, he was acting on orders from higher up, but he’d told Wren and Cutter that they didn’t want the true tale getting out. They were afraid that letting the general population learn that a mad warforged had nearly killed tens of thousands of people would lead to riots, with all the other warforged being blamed for the actions of one.