Maal The First Skull- Shadows of the Mind

by Theodore Packwood

  Tchurn looked away, his eyes resting on the fireplace. “Yes, she can. I have seen it before,” he mumbled.

  I had floated over to him. I reached out with my hands, and my fingers slipped through his skull. They tickled the edges of his brain, following the secret trails of his mind into its depths. A word came to me:

  Kurah roh cholah, the ability to re-live a person’s memories. There was more to it, but the information remained buried. Roughly translated into the human language, a word came to mind:

  Skrulling.

  My fingers had great difficulty finding images, at first. His mind was far different from Reze’s; I could feel it in my fingers. The spacing of fingers that had worked for Reze’s mind found nothing in Tchurn’s. This attempt was more difficult to isolate the correct finger placements; his mind was bizarre and alien. Again, I had to surrender conscious control of the motion of my fingertips.

  Here and there, my fingers instinctively found their place, until suddenly I was not in the bar. My senses were replaced with Tchurn’s memories as time seemed to slow around me.

  M A A L

  Trorenok grew out of the earth to provide us with life,” Thorl said behind me in a deep, powerful voice.

  He meant, of course, the towering volcano to the north. Trorenok was angry today, spewing great clouds of dark ash into the sky, and bleeding from His crown. His dark-bright, molten blood squeezing through the hole in His chest was thicker than normal, flowing down His slopes to make the burning river swell. We had all attended the morning offerings–the troerdel–to try to pacify Him—with no effect. I was not worried; I had seen Him much angrier, when I was young.

  “We live within His safe and comforting embrace,” Thorl continued.

  Trorenok’s rocky shoulders changed into sheer ridges stretching southwest and southeast. Here the eastern arm of Trorenok still rose high into the sky, following the burning river south, and blocking all view eastward. I fondly remembered chasing the gohoats along the ridge as a child. They were not afraid of me, though they scattered when other Tror approached. I would wrestle their huge, curved horns for fun, and they would shove me around gently. The other children had called me ‘gohoat-mate’, but they had been half my size or smaller. I enjoyed watching the shaggy beasts hop down the ridge, their long fur wafting to and fro as they waddled at the bottom, looking for the tubers that grew by the river of Trorenok’s blood.

  The tubers–sath, we called them–were large and pale, and thick as my wrist. They twisted and curled as they grew, knotting through and around each other. They grew in long rows up to the waists of the farmers who moved about in the dim light, trimming and cutting, their bronze skin reflecting the light of the river. Both male and female were topless, enjoying the heat of the river, and revealing the bulging musculature of even the weakest of the Tror. They tossed rotten sath back into the river, too acidic to be eaten, while the ripe tubes would serve as vegetables this evening across the city. I was looking forward to my own plate of tubers with my mate and our son, after we dealt with this criminal.

  “This is Trorenok’s blood,” the voice continued. “It provides us with heat, and life. It purges impurities from all living things.”

  The burning river was not harsh upon my eyes, and it provided bright light as it flowed between us and the ridge, following the confines of Trorenok’s arms to encompass the entirety of our land. This was our home, a sprawling city of farmlands, towers of rock, and mounds of crafted obsidian. The mounds were living quarters, designed to withstand the purging, burning floods Trorenok sometimes blessed us with.

  “Let His blood cleanse this Tror who is unclean.”

  I turned. Seven other Lavalier stood in a semicircle, with me at the end point of the right arc. They were all shorter than I, the tallest coming up to my nose, but this was true of all other Tror: none were as tall as I.

  We all held our giant swords in the air, point down. Our coifs were up, but I could see the bunched muscles upon their faces, accompanied by blunt noses, glowing-red eyes, and grim mouths. We wore the Lavalier armor—our everheating gift from Trorenok’s deep veins of metal—which glowed faintly. Together we were a Sword: eight Lavalier working together as a fighting unit. I was the Point of our Sword–the torun–a position of great honor within the Sword, as it was typically the most dangerous.

  In the center of our semicircle stood a Tror in chains, his face in shadow as he stood with his back to the river of His blood. He was short and extremely thin. He wore only a loincloth, revealing his emaciated form. His guards told me he had not eaten in a bluemonth. He was so thin it seemed implausible that he could even stand on his own, yet he remained defiantly upright, eyes glaring their malice upon us. His chains were made of the same material as our armor, connecting his left ankle to his right wrist, and the other ankle to his left wrist in a large ‘X’. He was bald, large-nosed and small-eared, but he barely resembled the son of the Master Orelord he used to be.

  “C’theth,” Thorl said, three to my left, the Crux of our Sword. He was the shortest of us, but not the weakest. Thorl had more than earned his right to lead us.

  The emaciated man bared his teeth.

  “Will you go willingly into the cleansing fire of Trorenok’s blood?” Thorl asked.

  “I will not,” C’theth rasped, his voice carrying a rattle. “Carry out your sentence if you can.”

  We had had to escort him down here from the prisons at sword-point. He had been meek, once, and portly. I pitied him, for I had known him before his change. His wife would need Trorenok’s blood to purge her of the grief she would feel when Trorenok claimed him.

  Thorl nodded. As one we raised our swords, pointed at him, and herded him to the edge of the river. He snarled.

  “Tarbet,” Thorl said, naming one of the others.

  The Lavalier opposite me in the semi-circle lunged forward. C’theth twisted, and blocked it with his chains. There was a loud scrape as Tarbet’s sword slid against the chain. It was only a diversion.

  I swung my sword hard. The flat side impacted the back of C’theth’s head with a loud crack. The blow should have killed him, but he only growled and went to his knees. Four Lavalier dropped their swords and leapt upon him. Two grabbed his legs, one his left arm, and one his neck. C’theth struggled as Thorl came forward and unlocked the manacle on his left ankle.

  Nearby lay a dense hunk of rock, chosen carefully from inside Trorenok’s chest. Thorl quickly attached the manacle to a metal bar that had been embedded deep into the rock.

  Thorl and two others heaved on the rock. Only I stayed back, resting my sword on my shoulder to guard against C’theth’s escape, which he was already struggling to claim. They strained to push the rock into the river.

  “Tchurn! Before he recovers!”

  I dropped my sword and charged, lowering my shoulder and ramming the rock with my weight. After a few more moments of strained effort, it rolled into Trorenok’s blood.

  We watched cautiously, letting the rock pull C’theth into the river. The other four Lavalier held on, so that only his right arm was pulled to the lava, trying to save what part of him we thought could still be saved.

  His arm and shoulder were pitch-black. They looked charred, as if he had once already dipped it into the burning river. Sharp edges of burnt skin stuck out from it, and we knew they were dangerous, able to penetrate even Lavalier armor. His fist was still locked around the piece of black metal he had been tasked to study by our Trok–our king. Perhaps the only command our Trok had given that had led to such misery.

  C’theth’s arm was yanked into the river. He came to life, yelling in pain, bucking and thrashing. We waited patiently, knowing Trorenok would cleanse the impurities from our brother.

  He did not stop fighting. On and on it went, far longer than he should have been able to withstand. He screamed and cursed while struggling to get his arm out of the lava. Odder still, his screams did not have the vigor of a normal Tror. His voice alone should have kno
cked us back. Instead, it carried a deep, awful under-tone that made my ears sting.

  “Tchurn! Assist me!” one of my Sword called. I went and squeezed C’theth's neck in my left arm, pressing his head down into the ground with my whole body. Still he fought, heaving and cursing, as his arm sizzled and burned I watched the char crawl over his shoulder, across his back, and up his neck.

  “The char is covering his body,” I said to my sword. I had never had to use my full strength to restrain a Tror before, yet here it was not enough. The char continued to crawl down his legs, around his head, even to his other arm.

  I felt it first. A huge tremor flowed through his body, followed by cracking and popping, which made him scream–a different kind of scream, this one from pain, not rage. His body shifted underneath me, growing larger. A moment later, the chain holding his arm in the lava snapped. He surged to his feet, flinging all four of us off with a triumphant shout. I landed hard on my back, but my armor took the brunt.

  As I stood, I saw C’theth had transformed. He was covered head-to-foot in char; he no longer looked like a Tror. Sharp edges, like those that had recently only been on his arm, protruded from his entire body. Wisps of black smoke slithered out of him, between cracks in the char. His left hand bore long, sharp claws, and his feet had thick talons. His right arm was bright red, still super-heated from the river; the rest of him was dark and shadowy. Even his face was no longer Tror: it was nothing but a cruel mask of char.

  Tarbet rushed him. C’theth rammed his glowing fist right through Tarbet’s chest, armor and all. He yanked it out, and my Sword-brother fell to the ground, dead.

  We all yelled in grief and anger. The Sword had been broken!

  We took up our swords and attacked. Our weapons scraped across his skin, leaving no mark. He laughed scornfully at us, then smacked a sword aside and rammed his fist through another chest. He picked up my dead sword-brother and flung him onto two others, knocking them down. More blows landed, but he was unfazed. He fought us back, easily pressing us away from the river. He swung his fist in a long arc and took another Sword-brother’s head off.

  Thorl charged from my left and slammed into C’theth. He pushed hard and took C’theth back to the edge of the river. He managed to stop, his clawed feet digging deep grooves into the rock.

  “Not enough!” C’theth said, laughing maniacally. His voice was greatly changed. It was very deep, raspy, and vicious. He pounded Thorl on the back with his fist. I heard a crack and saw huge gash in his armor. Thorl went down to his knees.

  Thorl looked up at me. I knew what he wanted.

  With everything I had, I smashed the flat of my sword into the back of C’theth’s thighs. C’theth staggered, as two others rammed into Thorl, keeping the charred Tror off-balance. I joined in, and we managed to push him to the edge before C’theth stopped us. He was about to strike out when Thorl kicked against the ground, surging him up. He lifted C’theth off the ground and fell into the river.

  C’theth shrieked, trying to grab at the shore, but Thorl held on, slowing him down. Within moments they sank beneath the surface.

  I followed the flow of the river, watching for C’theth or Thorl, but I knew Thorl would not let go until C’theth succumbed. Reinforcements were called, and many Swords watched the banks of the river for several bluedays.

  Thorl was lost; his armor was discovered on the shore far down-river. It had been nearly shredded.

  But C’theth... I would see C’theth again.

  M A A L

  Tchurn shook his head, dislodging my phantom fingers from their embedded locations, returning my vision and senses to the bar. He seemed unaware of what I had done, as Reze’ had. As before, I could remember Tchurn’s memories as if they were my own—as if I had lived them myself.

  If only you could do more than poke around in other’s skulls, said Carmine.

  Skrulling would be an excellent way to extract information from someone, said Cerulean.

  You should search for memories of fucking, said Magenta.

  Or murder, said Viridian.

  Tchurn heaved himself off the ground, and coughed his way over to his fireplace, which was burning well from the logs he had thrown in earlier. He crawled over them to lay behind the fire, and reached out to grab the rest of the logs he had dumped. He piled them over and around himself, creating a makeshift pyre. With his boots and gloves as a pillow, he propped his head up, though the coughing and snorting continued intermittently, until he finally fell asleep. He was far out of reach of my fingers, now.

  Similarly, I felt Jil drift away, as her emotions faded.

  I was alone, but for the voices. For some time, they berated and insulted me as I floated around the bar in solitude, with no other sound but Tchurn’s crackling fireplace; the others had died down to embers. The voices grew quiet—perhaps from my lack of response—finally leaving me alone.

  I pondered on my connection to Jil. It seemed as if a survival instinct had been triggered when she had been threatened with decapitation. Was she vital to my continued existence? Would I join her in death if she perished? Or was I already dead?

  That is all you are, sneered Carmine. The remnants of a fool who already died.

  That I could be so weak was a disgusting thought. But even this revulsion to weakness I did not comprehend.

  I peeked gingerly into the deep ocean that was my memory, trying to dredge up any knowledge of Jil, or the char: nothing. There was a facade of emptiness, the shadows of dark things lurking beneath the surface, and a gargantuan, slumbering presence.

  I fled immediately from that thing, that leviathan hiding in the depths of my mind. Was that Obsidian?

  The voices were strangely silent. I cursed them.

  Jil’s black fist seemed crucial. When Tchurn had struck it, I had felt something I did not understand. It was as if my body had been struck by lightning: every part of my ethereal body had become, for an instant, full of sparks. It had not been painful; just the opposite. It had been like a potent orgasm of my entire form.

  This led to a fascinating conclusion. Harm to Jil equated to pleasure for me.

  Cholah sah V'rakbisah!

  The words surged up from the depths, unbidden. They meant: “You are a demon!” but I could not explain my sudden ability to translate them. There was no face with the words. A masculine voice this time, screaming at me, full of Hatred. I strained for more, trying to close eyelids I did not have, but nothing else surfaced.

  Tchurn knew. Tchurn knew something about C’theth’s fate that he was reluctant to share; I had been close to the knowledge before being interrupted. It was clear at the end of his memory that C’theth had become a creature of terrible strength, yet not one that seemed capable of destroying the Tror. What had transpired after that memory?

  If I could not Skrull him, I would have to find some way to peel the information from him. Several wicked ideas bubbled forth, and I played with them, bursting those that would not serve. One idea continued to float nearby, irresistible and devious. After eliminating many ideas, it alone remained.

  Jil’s eyes had turned black after her fist had been struck, and she had become emotionless, and far more obedient. We would discover whether those black eyes could be recalled.

  I thought about waking her, and floated over to her loft. She was asleep, and in her dreams, her emotions spilled over into reality, fueling my power with that tingling sensation again. It was like feeding: not unpleasant, but essential.

  The rest of the uXulu were wrapped about each other under the furs. All but eXia, who lay at one end of the uXulu, next to Jil.

  She stared into the darkness above, her mind churning over Tchurn’s words, perhaps. Or Jil’s safety, or…

  Her eyes rolled up and her back arched, and a soft moan came from her as something wiggled under her furs.

  What an orgasm! breathed Magenta.

  I slid beneath the fur. oXellona’s fingers were rubbing eXia’s clit, gentle then hard, fast then slow. She
slid them inside and rammed them roughly in and out, until eXia had another orgasm. And still she was not done.

  I put my face directly above eXia’s, watching her back arch in another orgasm, lifting her huge breasts high. On the next, she squeezed a fur with white knuckles as a grunt came out of her. On the next, her mouth made a huge “O”, as her eyes fluttered. On the last, she could not contain a loud groan, cut short by her self-control. oXellona came out beneath the furs and nuzzled her. “Will that help, lover?” she whispered, smiling. eXia could only gasp for breath, her eyes closed.

  A painful, urgent desire throbbed; a stab to the gut no less awful than a needle by The Nail’s creatures. The ache was overpowering, as if a void was devouring my insides. I will not admit I tried to claw my eyes out.

  You brought this upon yourself, said Cerulean.

  It was oh, oh, oh, so worth it, said Magenta.

  I was not sure. I was so desperate for release I would have agreed to go back to The Nail for even a few moments of fucking eXiaxana.

  oXellona watched eXia’s face with sleepy eyes. As eXia’s panting slowed, she replied: “I’m better now, oXell.” Yet a disappointed sigh followed.

  “They said the need…” oXellona yawned “…won’t go away until we mate.”

  “I know. We need man-seed to stop the ache.” She lay still, but a crease still pulled her eyebrows together. After a time, she whispered: “Why is my ache so much worse than yours?”

  oXellona had fallen asleep.

  I flew away from her, lust driving me with a vicious whip.

  Maal can not handle his inability to touch, said Tawny.

  Oh, what delicious agony an unquenchable desire is, said Magenta.

  Into the dark corner where they had napped earlier, with the corpses of tables and benches, I sought solace, and found none. Watching eXia orgasm again and again had been severe torture. I was full of as much need as she had, but unlike her, had not even a modicum of release.

  The frustration made me Hateful, so Hateful my fingers sparked. Hate built and built within me until I felt a tremendous pressure to explode.