The Twenty-First Entry

The survivors had plans, plans that were carried out well. The tunnel birthed out in breadth, longer and higher than before, and reached deeper into the planet’s metallic surface - with large bulkhead doors sealing away whatever lay at its end; a disused railway led further down, both on the ground and on the ceiling.

Their plans were followed out too well, as if prepared. I needed to extract information from this beggar lord to figure out what exactly the Reverent had either planned, or already carried out.

“Our world is called Xirriul.” The old man said as we progressed further and further down, and behind more bulkhead doors. “Not far now, at the end of the tunnel, is our last refuge: Nathar. Named after a great Hero of our people, yet even the Hero grows darker as the days progress.”

“How long has this been going on?” A’re asked.

“Four hundred days, and it goes no better than the day last.” The old man answered. “But hold your questions eager one. Our prophet would delight in speaking with you.”

As we grew closer to the end of our tunnel journey, the guards grew denser. These militia personnel appeared better equipped than the outer guard, and less crazed. Their demeanor, however, appeared similar in disparity. Their situation was hopeless, and they knew it.

The last bulkhead appeared before us, a large dirt red metal door, and its consort of guards staggered about in admirable defensive positions. Towers of patched metal were erected on either side of the tunnel, with heavy platform weapons and launchers. Overhead a staggeringly impressive gun platform hovered over the tracks. Its numerable hanging platforms bristled with heavy minigun thermal slug throwers, and launchers, spanning some yards in length; dark metal spikes darted in every direction off it in case of apparent boarding.

The militia positioned around the bulkhead door were not militia, or ragtag survivors – but soldiers. Their armor was polished in grit, and dedication, black and grey against the burning red of the bulkhead door. Yet, every soldier carried a different insignia branded upon their shoulders - perhaps symbolizing a different unit.

“We have arrived then at the last door: “Nathar’s Red Shield”, and our last defense.” The old man said proudly, and with tones of defeat.

One of the guards gestured, and the bulkhead door began opening. Light permeated the bleak tunnel, and A’re’s yellow eyes blazed in wonder.

Nathar, the last refuge, a collage of dangling towers and patched together apartments shaped into rectangular formations, stretched for miles into the distance. Signs and neon lights beamed of businesses still functioning, and bustling voices echoed throughout. Vehicles traveled hurriedly through the area carrying various cargo and goods. Yet, for all the wonders of the city, its decrepit nature was visible through the gilded veil. Not every home appeared occupied, and those who were not working left staring into the unknown.

Beside the city, however, the tracks led off to the left, and there was a grander design.

“Grim Brimmer.” The old man said looking to the left. “Our last real defense.”

A giant weapon rest nestled into a hanger bay, steam pulsing and shooting out of its exhaust which filled the city in a plume of smoke. The energy that swirled from the cannon was likely enough to fill the tunnel completely, the bore narrow enough to focus the beam.

The old man led the way through the city, children running to greet us with soot-stained smiles, and a whispering crowd forming in our wake. For all their apparent struggling appearances, there was sleeplessness to them, their eyes heavy and tired. A dark violet ting just peaking from behind the eyes of one of the children caught my attention – something else was at work upon them.

Passing through the city and crowds, we came to the end of the road – a large tepee like building sat before us. A square rested in front, a large fountain and cobbled statue decorated its emptiness, the water of the fountain green with grime.

“Nathar, I presume?” A’re said walking up to the statue.

The statue of the man held a shield in gilded attire, his armor of leather straps and wielding an axe.

“Yes, Nathar our guardian. He passed into legend eons ago for our people and left behind an ancestral line which the tribes have forever called our guide. The prophet, whom you are about to meet, is the last.” The old man said.

A parallel set of stairs led upwards and onto a veranda which led to two wood-like doors and into the building itself. We climbed the right set of the stairs, and the old man grasped one of the handles of the doors. Inside the building was dimly lit and spacious. A long red carpet reached the doorway and extended further into the building. Sections appeared walled off, but the tops of the rooms removed for the greater ceiling that peaked overhead. At the end of the carpet, candles positioned themselves along its edges and led to a low round wooden table which was surrounded in large plush red pillows, perhaps acting as seats.

“Welcome, I’ve been expecting you.” A young voice said over the flicking candles.

A boy no older than fourteen or fifteen sat on one of the red pillows and gestured for us to come forward. His hair was long and black, lines of red markings ran the length of his nose and cheeks from his forehead, a pair of green eyes staring out over the table.

“I am the Prophet. Please, sit friends. We have much to discuss.”