Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Master Tu’olo pulled on an eyebrow, studying him. “Yes, Garett. There is something indeed different about you.”

  Garett smiled. The meeting was going well, he thought. Surely, Master Tu’olo understood his need to join with another Elemental immediately. It was not only a matter of his safety, but also his continued growth as a fire mage which would be stunted if he did not pursue his magical training. Without the power of an Elemental to stimulate his own natural talents, to heighten his own perceptions, he would never obtain the level of power he craved.

  No, not craved. Craved insinuated a weakness. He did not crave the power. He deserved it. Yes, that was what Delila used to tell him. He deserved to be great and powerful. Men would someday bow to him. No, not just men. Lord Ragget.

  “However, I’m afraid I cannot help you, young man,” Master Tu’olo continued, looking at him over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. “At least not in the way you had hoped.”

  Garett frowned. “I have apologized for my childish insults repeatedly!”

  Master Tu’olo held up a wrinkled, callused hand. “Young man, I am not prone to holding juvenile grudges against former pupils, so do not begin to assume otherwise. I find it insulting that you think my motives for denying your request would be so crass.”

  Garett’s mouth pinched tight. “Forgive me again, Master Tu’olo, as I have explained, I have suffered greatly over the past few days and I . . . I was wrong to think so little of you. You have only ever shown me kindness in the past . . .”

  The old fire mage stroked his long white sideburns, twirling the ends around his index fingers as if they were wisps of smoke. “Yes, yes of course, and I do hope the tray of muffins was satisfactory. I assume, since you ate them all, they were?”

  Garett glanced at the empty pewter tray and blanched. He remembered picking up one or two. Had he consumed them all?

  “But back to the business at hand.” Master Tu’olo leaned forward in his rocker and rested his bony elbows on his knees. “I cannot help you, because I do not have a Fire Elemental to offer you.”

  Garett was at a loss for words.

  “I can see by your stunned expression and gaping jaw you did not anticipate my inability to offer you immediate help,” Master Tu’olo said flatly. “But instead, I offer you this small piece of advice. Forgo a Fire Elemental for a while.”

  Garett’s heart thundered wildly in his chest. As his former master related all the reasons why he should not join with another Elemental, all he could think about was the glorious feelings Delila had given him when she was still alive inside him. Her power had coursed through him magnificently, and together, they, he, had become a great power. She was just the tool to achieve those means and he desperately needed another Elemental.

  No, not ‘desperately needed’. He . . . he . . . desired . . . another Elemental. Yes, desired was the right word.

  “Garett?”

  “Yes?” he asked, focusing on the old man’s face again.

  “I was telling you that if you must join with another Elemental, then perhaps you should seek one out on your own,” Master Tu’olo said.

  “I thought Sorcerer Augustus summoned the Elementals in the great chamber of fire beneath the Temple.”

  “He does,” Master Tu’olo replied. “And he has graciously gifted you with one already. The fact that you have . . . lost her, does not entitle you to an immediate replacement.”

  “But I . . .” Garett bit his tongue and choked on the word ‘need’, swallowing it back before it could escape his teeth. “But I . . . have no idea where to begin such a search.”

  Master Tu’olo rose stiffly from the old rocking chair. “Being a venerable man, I have collected a few things over the years.” He shuffled toward the fireplace. “My dearly departed wife never understood the need for such things, and as such, I was forced to hide many precious belongings from her sharp eyes.” He reached out and pushed a brick beneath the mantle. A small door creaked open in the rear of the fireplace. “Beyond, you will find a number of maps. I suggest you look for a place of great fire.”

  Garett took the old man’s hand in his. Tremendous heat pulsed through it. “Thank you, Master Tu’olo.”

  “Do not thank me, young man. I have done nothing for which to deserve thanks,” Master Tu’olo replied. “And should your search lead you to what you seek, and this new Elemental becomes the expedient I believe it will, do not curse me either, for I will not deserve your ire. Step through and seek the knowledge of your own free will or turn back. The choice is yours.”

  Garett stared at the crackling fire and the open door beyond. For a moment, he hesitated, but the luxurious pull of the desired power urged him forward. He stepped into the fire, pausing to caress the flames as they licked his flesh, and then because he didn’t want to show his old master any signs of weakness, he reluctantly left the fire behind, passing through to the other side unburnt.

  The room beyond was small and filled with various scrolls, books, ledgers, boxes, crates, and barrels. A small table and chair huddled in one corner of the room and above it, squeezed between a bookcase filled with black leather tomes and a strange-looking stringed instrument, hung an ancient cartographer’s drawing of the known world. Gallesia.

  Look for a place of great fire . . .

  Garett scanned the map quickly, his eyes almost immediately finding Belyne. To the south, Dardynia, a land of beautiful red-headed women, but of cold, snow and ice too. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t find what he wanted . . . well . . . he wouldn’t find a Fire Elemental . . . there.

  His eyes drifted east across the Salarian Sea to the vast lands sketched on the right side of the Gallesian map. He found Euclacia and Bel’yowlye, both situated near the equator, and while they enjoyed warm climates neither were consider unbearably hot. He searched further east and found the great cities of Koranthe and Oakenia and Raziland. No . . . no . . . up to the north Sepeccare and Lautereck . . . no that would probably be too cold . . . way to the south . . . no . . .

  Back across the Salarian, he decided to start at Belyne again. He scanned the map north past various Yordician cities, west over to Gyunwar and beyond, nothing caught his eye . . . Further north he spotted the ancient city-state of Seneice, a warm city, but not exactly what he was looking for. He needed something closer to the equator perhaps. What was up there . . .?

  His gaze stopped on the mysterious lands of Scylthia. The drawing of the jungle region was vague, with few descriptions. A trio of rivers was listed by name, Yavari, Manu and Vilacocho, but one mountain drawn near the center of the jungle caught his eye. There were two words scrawled in tiny script next to it. He leaned in close . . .

  Voulkanti Drak.

  A slow smile spread across his face as he recognized the old Gyunwarian words.

  The Great Volcano.

  chapter 34

  Apaxco waded naked out of the brown Vilacocho River and plopped on the muddy bank for a breather. The two pouches dangling from his hips were heavy and full of colored stones. It had been a busy morning and the great yellow eye had yet to move high enough in the sky to clear the jungle canopy and cast its warm gaze down on him and the languid river. If not for the new white eagle masters in the seaside city, he might have closed his eyes and napped until midday. Or maybe, he would have hiked back to the little hut he shared with Chalco and mounted her. For the past three cycles, she had wanted a baby in her belly and if he didn’t hurry up and put one there, someone else would. She’d said so last night when he had ridden her.

  Apaxco grunted and spat. He blamed the lack of a baby on the white eagle masters and their demands for more stones. Always with them it was more stones, more stones. He dived now not just in the mornings, but throughout the entire day. Always working, always seeking, and always tired and hungry.

  Back when the black dragon masters ruled the seaside city, two full pouches of colored stones would have been more than enough for a day’s work and a day’s ration of food. Back then, life
in the jungle had been good.

  Back then, he had put three babies in three different women.

  Apaxco spat again. That’s what he thought of the new white eagle masters and their demands . . .

  And yet, he climbed to his feet and stretched. He disliked the extra work, but he’d seen what had happened to those who had defied their new masters. The lucky ones were only whipped. The less fortunate ones were unmanned.

  He spat a third time just because he was feeling daring. Or perhaps he was inspired by the impressive might and strength of the great Voulkanti Drak looming above the jungle canopy west of him. His people had come down from the mountain long ago bringing with them many stories and legends. Someday he would go back. He would learn if the legends were true. He would see with his own eyes if the fire still lived inside the mountain. He thought it did. He knew fire hated water and almost every day, he saw the mountain’s jagged crown attack the underbellies of the passing storm clouds. The clouds would split open and the rains would come usually reaching him by midday and be gone again in a blink of an eye, sticking around just long enough to make the jungle moist and sticky. The warm river would feel cool then and provide an escape from the swarming black flies.

  Apaxco emptied the two pouches into the small wooden chest the white eagle masters had given him three days ago as they paddled their large boat upriver. In two days’ time, they would reach the waterfall at the base of Voulkanti Drak and then float back downriver, stopping at certain points to exchange full chests for empty ones. During exchange day, Apaxco would speak with other divers as they waited for the boat, careful not to reveal too much about where he was stone-seeking, while at the same time, trying to determine if another area might offer up better results. Ten days ago, he had taken this quiet bend in the river from an old diver who’d bragged about how many large green stones he’d found there. Apaxco had enjoyed similar success. His chest was already almost full and exchange day was still two days off.

  With luck, he’d fill the chest today and spend all day tomorrow mounting Chalco.

  He waded back out into the river until the water level reached his chest and then he swam out a bit further. He took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface. The light quickly faded as he swam toward the river’s bed. For the big green stones, he didn’t need his eyes to find them, he could tell them by touch.

  He swam along the bottom, kicking his feet slowly as his fingers searched blindly for the colored stones. When he found one, he quickly shoved it into a pouch and continued his search. Two more followed and then a third. He surfaced, took another deep breath and sank to the bottom again. His pouches were filling up quickly as he slowly worked his way back toward the shore. He went down one last time but found nothing.

  Apaxco was about to kick to the surface when he saw something . . . something shiny and white directly ahead of him. It was just a speck of white, but his heart immediately began to race. He didn’t dare surface now for fear of losing sight of the rare stone. He moved forward slowly despite his growing need for air. He didn’t want to disturb the river bed.

  Easing a hand forward, he plucked the stone out of the mud and was surprised to find it was larger than he first thought. Most of it had been buried. Rather than shove his great find in one of his pouches, he carried it clenched in his fist to the surface.

  Heart still pounding in his chest, Apaxco swam to the shallow water and stood. Only then did he open his fist and stare down at the rare white stone. It was only slightly larger than the size of his thumbnail, but he knew the masters valued it over all the other colored stones.

  He waded toward shore and that’s when he saw him, the old diver, standing next to his wooden chest.

  “Get away from there,” Apaxco said.

  The old man looked up and grinned. “I’ve been watching you, boy. You’re a hard worker.” He pointed to the chest. “Much harder than me.”

  “I said, get away from there!”

  Apaxco reached for the small bone knife he kept strapped to the back of his thigh. Before he could draw it, another man stepped out from behind a tree and stood next to the old diver. This man was bigger, younger and taller.

  “We’ve come to take our stones,” the old diver said.

  “Those are mine!” Apaxco growled.

  The old diver chuckled. “I know your kind. You listen during the exchange. You hear where the stones are good. You take over those sites. So, I figure all I have to do is find a good site, brag a little too loud about it, and sit back and wait for some young pup to do the work. I take the stones. You take the punishment.” He pointed. “I’ll take those pouches too.”

  “No.”

  The young man beside the old diver drew a long metal blade like the kind the white eagle masters in the city carried.

  “Don’t be a fool,” the old diver called out. “Give me the stones and I’ll let you live. It’s a good site. Maybe by exchange day you’ll have filled your chest again. If not, you can always disappear into the jungle.”

  Apaxco hesitated. The old diver had the advantage, but still he searched for a way out of this trouble.

  “I’m feeling generous,” the old diver said. “Give me the pouches and we won’t go back to your hut and mount your woman.”

  Apaxco drew his bone knife. “If you touch Chalco . . .”

  “What I meant to say was, give me the pouches and the white stone in your hand and we won’t go back to your hut and mount your woman again.”

  Apaxco’s face burned. He could not undo what they had done to Chalco. He could not stop them from taking his chest of colored stones . . . but he could keep them from having the white stone!

  He shoved it in his mouth and swallowed it.

  The old diver turned to the young man. “Cut it out of his belly.”

  The big man waded into the river. Apaxco turned and splashed toward deeper water. Once he could no longer run, he began to swim. The full pouches weighed him down, so he reluctantly cut them loose. With luck, he’d be able to find them again.

  Apaxco swam out toward the center of the river until he felt the current pick up. Then, he turned downriver and allowed the water to carry him past the bend and away. He glanced back once and saw the bigger man bobbing in the water far behind him. Swimming with that long piece of metal was probably not easy.

  His anger swelled as the river carried him downstream. He had been such a fool! He’d heard stories of men who pulled tricks like the old diver, but he hadn’t thought it could happen to him. He slapped the water in frustration and considered his options. The rains came and left and all he had come up with were the two options the old diver had already given him. Refill the chest or flee into the jungle. Fleeing would not be easy. He’d have to not only hunt for his own food again, but also avoid the white eagle master’s hunters. It wasn’t much of a choice.

  He’d have to dive for stones and hope he found a good site.

  Apaxco swam for shore. He waded out of the water and was about to climb the muddy bank when a sharp pain struck his stomach. He clutched at his middle and keeled over grimacing. Flies buzzed over him as he writhed in the mud. Something pounded inside his head, inside his chest, inside his stomach. A cold chill pricked the bottom of his spine and raced up toward his skull. His spasms increased. His body stretched in one direction and bent violently in the other, muscles snapped taut and fell limp again and again. His fingers curled into wretched claws and he tore at the skin on his expanding chest. He screamed, and overhead unseen monkeys chattered and screamed back. Birds shot skyward and winged away.

  Apaxco gasped once and lay still.

  It was dark when he woke. The jungle was alive with noise, but when he rose, the jungle grew still. The earlier pain was gone. The earlier rage was not. He sniffed the air. He smelled the old diver. He smelled the young man with the metal. He smelled . . .

  His flared nostrils filled with the scent of Chalco. Chalco! Immediately, he hardened, and all thoughts turned to mating. He had to ha
ve her. Now!

  Through the jungle he raced, straight back to his little grass hut. He heard male laughing. He heard Chalco laughing. The old diver and his young ally were inside with Chalco. He smelled their sex.

  He burst into the hut and found all three joined as one. The two males he attacked with a fury he never knew before. The old diver’s head came off with the first blow. The younger man put up a bit more of a fight, but in the end, his strength was no match. He bent the younger man in half and in half again. Bones cracked. Skin split. The younger man’s insides spilled out. The air inside the hut filled with blood. He inhaled deeply. It was good.

  He found Chalco quivering against the far wall. There was only fear and loathing in her eyes. He didn’t care. He only wanted to mount her. He needed to mount her now.

  He threw her down on all fours and reared up behind her, drove into her, deeper, deeper, ignoring her cries as he split her wide open. She bucked beneath him, but he held her firm as he unleashed his lust. Harder and harder he pounded into her. Impaling her. Grunting. Snarling. Skin slapping. Her cries died away. Her head lolled. A growl started low in his mighty chest and built and built and built as the fluids churned inside him. She needed to take his seed. She needed to take his seed deep. Deeper. Deeper.

  With one last thrust, he unloaded his seed again and again and again. He threw his head back and screamed. He was giving her his seed. All his seed. Deeper than those other two had. Deeper than those puny men and their puny seed. His seed was mighty. His seed had come down from the mountain!

  When he was done, he pushed her away. She flopped forward and didn’t move. He shoved his way clear of the hut, the doorway much too small for him now and stalked down to the river to wash the blood off. To wash their stink off. To wash her stink off.

  He waded out into the river. The silver eye was high in the sky now. The jungle was quiet still. Strangely quiet.

  He dunked under the water. The coolness of the river soaked into his body and he began to feel tired. Sleepy. He straightened and started back toward shore. Water glistened off his great scaly arms and . . .