A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Many things occurred relatively unnoticed by the passive vallalauga millipede, who had already escaped through the gap in-between floors, almost coming into deadly conflict with a Vigilant’s hob-nailed boot, clunking heavily down upon the ground and rising the dust and shavings that had inextricably been forced through that same gap the vallalauga millipede had ventured, from the floor below.
The vallalauga millipede took accidental opportunity to ride the left boot of the Vigilant most of the way to its destination. It was upon the Vigilant coming to attention that the vallalauga millipede was thrown from his boot, whereupon the vallalauga millipede continued its venture. the vallalauga millipede quickly sensed the odour marker it had been seeking, both passively and instinctually, and moved toward it. This path demanded it climb the leg of a table, where the Curator of the Vigilant Museum tended to the ages old armour that was spread upon the table.
Though the vallalauga millipede was not to know, the Curator took a swipe suddenly at it, causing the vallalauga millipede to veer course from its most regrettable desire - that of the old leather, a delicacy beyond measure for a vallalauga millipede. The Curator was then reprimanded by the Vigilant Officer, the rotund man who sat at the desk, scratching away determinedly, making the most awfully indistinguishable notes and rosters upon dented paper.
The Curator of the Vigilant Museum continued to distractedly polish the fantastic leather of the armour, reminded upon whom the heavy pieces had once sat. Old Satchel, they called him. He was of an old era, that man.
The Curator was a young Vigilant, a new recruit, when Old Satchel was close to retirement. Old Satchel remembered the times when the Vigilants would be forced to wander the grounds outside the walls of the City, when it was still called Kombayn, and under the religious governance of the Old Gods.
There was many a shift that the Old Gods were called upon for protection. And during those unsteady years, there were only ever three incidents. The first a recruit, not differing in age by much from the Curator, then a functioning Vigilant called Lancey, disappeared without trace one difficult shift. Some who were with him said he was snatched by a shadow, another said something enormous and hirsute grabbed him about the body and bit off his head. The general, and therefore official, verdict was that he had been caught short and became lost within the enticing darkness of the forest. Lancey himself seeing things beyond explanation, decided it was misadventure, that the recruit became curious and followed a shadow within, and became lost very easily, turned around and eventually perished in the nothingness. Or more likely from fright, for that was what happened with the next victim.
They claimed they had found tracks of a creature, all the way up to the wall of Kombayn, and decided to reverse the steps, to find the creature in its nest. It was said that what they had found were hundreds of tiny creatures, all snapping at the air blindly when the Vigilants were detected, and one of the Vigilants reached into the nest to investigate further, only to be torn limb from limb by the ravenous creatures. The other Vigilants scattered. It was said that one of those Vigilants came face to face with, presumably, the Mother of the creatures - which caused this Vigilant to freeze to the spot - whereupon the Mother picked him up and squeezed the life out of him with a dissatisfying pop. The Vigilant’s colleague managed to get back to others, but died of fright, it was said, when he spotted the Mother come upon the edge of the forest. They presumed she had come to claim the Vigilant for her children, and this had scared the Vigilant to death. All this was relayed to recruits such as Lancey, by the Old Satchel one day, but it was the last victim that he remembered most. For the Old Satchel was involved.
It was a commonly held belief in the early days, that the City of Kombayn was built. This much was evident by its continued existence, but it was a different story that had once captivated the populace, which was that when the Towers were once at war, again a widely held knowledge, and those participants of that war were desperate for it to end, established a rapid peace. But what was difficult to prove, given no real evidential artefacts to bolster the belief, was that the warring Towers had become ever mindful of victory by whatever means. Peace, it seemed, came at a dangerous dalliance with creation, for it was believed that the creatures of the outside were once on the inside. That was to say, they were the product of the war. In so many words, they were created by the Towers.
This notion fell into legend and was nothing more than a tale to tell around a Noble’s table late into the evening, yet there were those who wished it had never been so, and worked to relieve the world of that burden. One jealous branch of this desire formed the Veiled. Another turned to the MonoGod, but it was the Old Gods who were to blame, and they knew it, which was why they left the world to the people. They knew no one thing should hold that much power. So when this creature came from out of the forest, it was to this belief that Old Satchel’s squad turned.
“It comes!” called out the Watchman from the crenelated walkway.
“To order Vigilants!” came the returned shout.
One Vigilant looked to Old Satchel, the interim squad leader, “Should we arm?”
“I -“ tried Old Satchel. He was simply in awe of the site before him. The creature showed no fear, seemingly knowing its way as though practiced in memory.
“Should we arm Sir!?” came a more vehement shout, “Sir!?”
The creature was within weapons range now, yet Old Satchel simply watched its advance. There was something confoundingly unusual about its gait, its demeanour and its motion. Old Satchel had certainly never seen a creature of the trees before, but it was not that which took his attention. It was the eyes, for they shone with humanity. With no order to the contrary, one Vigilant took it upon himself to fire at the creature. Several others awkwardly followed suit.
“Hold your fire!” called out Old Satchel, finally finding his words. The creature did not seem phased by the attack, as the arrows simply fell from its thick hide. Finally the creature reached the wall and stopped.
It seemed confused and pressed ineffectually at the massively thick stones. It then looked up at Old Satchel, looked directly into his eyes and he saw something inside. A longing. A desire. It wanted to go home, yet it did not know where home was, except for an instinctual nature that it was here, somewhere, within Kombayn itself. It whimpered a little, finding no way through. Old Satchel watched the dumb creature slowly turn and walk back toward the forest, dejected. The other Vigilants wanted to fire upon the creature, but Old Satchel prevented it. He watched the creature enter the tree line, look back once and disappear.
He would not, could not ever forget that moment when the two of them connected. He never again saw a creature of the forest, did Old Satchel, but one had been enough. He grew to become the Chief Vigilant eventually. He would ever tell of that tale, just to remind the recruits that one should never judge by appearances. A simple adage to be sure, but an effective one, as it had stayed with Lancey well into his tenure.
But it was a snap of the Discipline Stick upon the desk that woke the Curator from his reminiscence, only to remind him who was in charge. It had once been the Curator himself, as Vigilant Officer Lancey, who had distributed the power around here. Now it was the turn of this upstart. But it would not be forever. When it no longer was, the Curator intended to make his life a living Hell.
The Vigilant Officer was mostly hateful of the Curator’s position, which was often afforded to the retiree, but what it told the Vigilant Officer was that the Curator remained surplus to requirements, that his time had come and gone, which built resentment beyond measure and a distractible streak of meanness to all his subordinates. In this case that was everyone who was not the Chief Vigilant, who herself resided within the opulent Offices above, somewhere. It largely mattered not, at least not for the Vigilant Officer, who ruled his domain with an iron fist. However, that iron fist was covered in wool and soundproofed beyond measure. In essence, the only person the Vigilant Officer could pass judgement upon was the Curator, and he was older than the Tower itself, very possibly.
Yes, the old man was the past. The lady upstairs, she was useless. No Chief Vigilant should be a woman, that much was obvious. Why he had been overlooked so many times, the Vigilant Officer could not say. Favouritism, it must be. The Lord was known to have a wandering eye, and she always seemed to be in his Office. That was, at least, every time the Vigilant Officer saw her. Women. Only use for them was as an instrument for men. And the old man? His usefulness died along with the Old Gods.
Sure, so the Vigilant Officer enjoyed his food. So what? Did it not show appreciation? And the Vigilants under his care, useless to a one. He was always making orders for them, and they simply disregarded anything he told them. Alright, so they said he was little more than an Administrator, but did they know his vast experience? He had read upon the tactics of Revulla Scon, the philosophy of Nocter the Learned and the military history of Lord Vond VII, once Lord of the East Tower some millennia ago. Surely this entitled him to instruct the Vigilant recruits, to discipline them as he saw fit? To them he was a running joke, but he tried. He tried and tried. He would come before the Lord and the Chief Vigilant too often, but as he was well in meaning, they could do nothing but reprimand him and instruct the Vigilants to disregard any order he made. It was, quite frankly, an insult. Mother always told him he was special. Why could they not see it? An Attendant attended, coming to rest at the Vigilant Officer’s desk.
The Vigilant Officer was putting the finishing touches to his orders for the day, to be distributed to the Vigilants through the network of Attendants, “Here you are, Felly. Give this to your men.” said the Vigilant Officer, handing to the Attendant an undecipherable scrawl upon a piece of paper.
“And women.” added the Attendant absently, “Are you sure? I have been told not to -“
The Vigilant Officer waved an ink-laden quill about, “Do not question me, Felly! Complete my orders, if you please!”
“I will have to give it first to the Chief Vigilant -“ began the Attendant.
The Vigilant Officer snapped the Attendant a look, “Don’t - don’t test me today, Felly! Just do as I instruct.”
“And the name’s Velly.” muttered Velly.
“What?”
“Nothing Sir! Right away Sir!” said Velly brightly, “Idiot.” he muttered under his breath, as he turned and sauntered away.
And before him, there lay the spiral network of cobwebs hidden amongst the deepest shadows of the ceiling. So much did they remain haled that the line of egress was fed into a hole in the wall, no bigger than a pinky finger, where resided the frequense spider, neither observing, nor abiding the scene below. It’s desires lay above.
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