SciFi and Fantasy Stories: Crimson (chapter 2) - The Council

There is light. I am the light. There is heat. I am the heat. There is silence, and I dwell in it. There is anger, and it dwells in me.

It has been two years since I was reborn, two years since I became Crimson. I did not expect this. I did not expect the silence, for I did not know that Crimson cannot hear; they can only feel vibrations in the air and interpret those as sounds. I did not expect the anger, for I did not know it was the fuel upon which the Crimson feed. Fire needs fuel, after all. In these two years this fire has consumed me, and I have lost who I once was. I am Crimson now. Nothing else.

I open my eyes to a new morning. Sleep does not come easily to me, for I rarely welcome him. He is a stranger, not to be trusted, except when I have no choice. A thin sheen of cloud obscures the sky, lit from below by the rising sun, a river of fire across the heavens. I leave the cave, heading west, toward my destination: the Burning Mountain. The Crimson have called a Council, and all of us are compelled to attend. I pause for a moment after exiting the cave, surveying the path before me. I must descend to the valley below, passing by the village nestled there, before continuing through the woods beyond and over the next hill. From there it will be but a short trek across the barren plain to the Mountain.

The path down the hill is steep, and strewn with gravel. The loose stones shift under my bare feet. As I walk I wonder what the Council will be about. Lately there have been rumours growing, about a dark power stirring in the east. Increasingly, I have heard whispers of an ancient evil rising again, and there have been strange reports from the eastern border posts of the empire, sightings of fearsome beasts. What does it all mean? I vaguely remember that day, two years ago, when I followed the Crimson and witnessed him being attacked by a band of people. Lately such attacks have become more and more common. Crimson have always been feared, but hated? This council is long overdue.

It is nearly noon by the time I reach the village. The sun is hidden now by a large bank of cloud, grey and heavy with the promise of rain. A group of children play in the streets, but they stop when they notice me. I see a range of emotions arrayed across their faces, mostly fear, but also curiousity and... something else I cannot quite identify. They scamper off as I approach, and suddenly the streets are empty. At first I think the villagers are indoors because of the coming rain, but then I notice curtains twitching, faces peering from the windows. They have seen me, I realise, and they are afraid, but it is more than that. The hostility is almost palpable. Something hits me in the back, and I whirl -- there. A man leans out of a window, his face contorted with anger and fear.

"Get out! Your kind are not welcome here!"

I feel a familiar flash of rage, but quickly control it. These people are not my enemies. Though they hate me, I am sworn to protect them. I hasten my steps. The Mountain is calling.

By evening I have passed the sparse woods, and it looms before me across the barren plain. The red glow of sunset merges with that of the Burning Mountain, painting the sky in swathes of blood. This is the beacon: the sunset will last for an hour, and by then all the Crimson will have gathered, and the Council will begin. Even now, as I make my way across the plain, I can see others converging on the Mountain.

The history of our world has always been dominated by the four seats of power: the Burning Mountain in the west; the Warlocks' Tower in the east; the Sky Caves in the north; and the Hunters' Forest in the south. In the centre of these lie the humans, in their villages and towns and cities, weak and vulnerable. Hardly worth mentioning, and yet somehow our battles seem to revolve around them.

I join the rest of the Crimson on a broad plateau. The ground is soothingly hot on my bare feet; the stones seem to dance with a dull glow. Off to one side, however, I spot a group of creatures standing alone. They are tall, hulking, covered with orange fur... Hunters, from the south. Why are they here? This new development makes me uneasy, and I turn my eyes away from them.

In front of us a flat rock juts out from the mountainside, and as the sun fades over the horizon one of the Elders steps out onto it. He is old, white of hair and wrinkled, but his eyes burn as brightly as those of a young man, fresh, his anger undimmed. For a long moment he says nothing, painting the silence dark with his gaze.

"It has been a thousand years," he begins at last, "since the Crimson defeated the Warlocks. I was there. I fought in that great war to end all wars. Even after we tore down the walls of their tower, the fighting continued to rage for two full days."

I remember this tale, passed down through the years. According to the history, the decisive battle was fought at the summit of the Tower, where the Red King confronted the High Warlord in a clash that sundered the sky. The air bled fire, and the ground shook with thunder, but eventually the Red King emerged victorious, and for a thousand years there was peace in the world...

"But now it seems they have risen from the ashes to once again threaten the humans, whom we are sworn to protect." The Elder pauses for a moment, and I realize suddenly that I do not know eaxactly why Crimson are sworn guardians of the humans. It is something I have never had cause to question, until now. The Elder continues, "Many of you will have heard the rumours that they are gathering a large fighting force. It appears they have also somehow managed to stir up the humans against us. Now, we march to the eastern border once more, to destroy the Warlocks once and for all. They represent a threat that we cannot allow to persist. The Hunters have agreed to assist us in this, and they have sent the representatives you see here as proof of their commitment. The rest of their strength will join us en route to the eastern border. Come first light we will begin our march, but for now rest and meditate on the Mountain."

*

I dream. It is an exceedingly rare experience, and one I do not cherish. I stand on the barren plain under a lightless sky, the Mountain looming red before me. The smell of brimstone fills the air. Suddenly the Mountain explodes in a brilliant flash of light, sending huge chunks of rock flying in all directions. Slowly the glare fades, and suddenly I find the ground has turned to blood, and I am sinking...

I flounder helplessly, until the blood congeals around me, a thick, viscous prison. Only my head protrudes above the ground. In the distance I hear a faint thumping sound, growing louder by the moment, until I see a dark figure sandwiched between two wings of pure white. They shine so brilliantly in the darkness that it hurts my eyes, but I cannot turn away. I watch in despair as the winged creature begins to devour the remains of the Mountain, rock by rock, stone by stone...

*

Sunrise. Things are moving quickly now. We march in silence through the day and through the night that follows. The Red King himself leads us. He is an imposing figure, tall and stately. The air around him fairly shimmers with power. He drives us forward, fast and hard. There is no time for sleep, but the unsettling feeling inspired by that dream has not left me. Could the winged creature I saw be a Skyvian? Skyvians were flying creatures from the Sky Caves in the north, but for the most part they kept to themselves. If they had joined their strength to the Warlocks... but I cannot bring myself to speak of the dream. Crimson rarely sleep, let alone dream, and never so vividly. And yet I cannot deny what I myself have experienced. Still, I am loath to give voice to it. No. Perhaps if I do not speak of it, do not think of it, then nothing will come of it.