Storm Of War

by Ugo, Kachi

  STORM

  OF WAR

  KACHI UGO

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  L

  ike a sheep being led to slaughter, Peter Crawford, Woodfolk, Son, Coward, was being driven home for the first time in five years.

  Returning to Bar Harbor after all these years should have excited Peter, but as the cab sped down Caruso Drive toward Bar Harbor Road, his mind was inundated by flash images of doom.

  Five years.

  He never thought he would return to this place. He had done everything possible to totally cut himself off from his family—no calls, no texts, nothing!

  For five years he’d wanted nothing to do with his father, brother, and people … well, up until last week when it became painfully clear that he had to return home.

  Peter sighed, thinking it would calm his nervous mind. On the contrary, it gave greater detail to the pictures flashing through his mind. He tried to distract himself by looking at the bulging backpack to his right. In the pack were enough clothes to last him for a few days.

  Just a few days, then I’ll never have to show up here again.

  Peter knew what his people thought of him. Oh, he knew all too well. The thing was, he didn’t care. He had made peace with himself.

  You see, some people were born to rule. To lead people to war. To brave looking death in the face. Then some others were born to be ruled. To be led to war, or rather, to remain in the shadows while the war was being fought. To avoid, at all costs, having to face death.

  Peter was the sort of person to hide in the shadows. Call him a coward; he didn’t care. He wore it like a badge of honor—ever since he’d watched his twin sister get skewered in the chest by a shaft of iron.

  Yes, he was at peace with himself. His mind was hardened to the words of people. At sixteen he’d moved out of his father’s house. Six months after that he’d left Maine, vowing never to return.

  Sadly, he found himself breaking that vow now.

  The taxi turned south on Bar Harbor Road and raced toward Trenton Bridge. As the vegetation thickened and flourished, Peter felt a rush of power surge through him like the effects of an aphrodisiac.

  He’d not felt this much power in a long time. It was because in Maine there were more trees than there were houses and people put together and multiplied by ten.

  Traffic was denser than he remembered. The summer air was dry but rich with an aromatic smell, and the sun scorched the town with furious abandon.

  When they passed into Trenton, the number of buildings increased, as did the number of pedestrians. Summer in the Bar Harbor area saw the population rise from a few thousand to a few tens of thousands.

  Summertime brought many new faces to Maine, while daytime made for easy target recognition and neutralization. These were two periods of time he had sworn never to be caught dead in a place like Maine.

  Unfortunately, his situation was dire. He could not wait until winter when all the people who sought to cause harm to people like him, were holed up in Iron Range, Minnesota.

  Peter gazed past his driver at the bridge ahead. He took in a deep breath, his mind sizzling with so much power that he could taste cherrywood on the back of his tongue. His hands trembled with ability. He looked down at them in surprise.

  Sure, it had been long since he Levitated; nevertheless, he didn’t remember it being this way.

  He could sense the woods calling out to him. He could hear their faint but rich voices in the wind. His body buzzed, yearning to give in to desire. The life force of many coursed through his veins, making him feel invincible.

  Invincible? The word stood out in his mind, enmeshed in fury.

  Peter swallowed hard and resisted the urge to yield to this power.

  This power had betrayed him. This power had deceived him, only making him feel invincible, never actually making him invincible. This power wasn’t enough to save his sister from death. When it came up against those who lived for their destruction, it failed with utter effortlessness.

  Peter felt a frown crawl up his face as he remembered the events of his sister’s death. It was on this dark note that the taxi crossed Trenton Bridge to the east side of Mount Desert Island.

  As quick as the screams of a captive vanish when an ax is brought down on their head, so did the richness, the voices, the power, and the life of the woods vanish. It wasn’t replaced by silence, but by something far worse.

  Anguish. Resistance. Death. With all of these Peter was very familiar.

  The east side of Mount Desert Island.

  The call of the woods silenced, Peter relaxed his tensed body as he could no longer feel any pull. He released himself into the receiving embrace of the surrounding anguish, allowing it to soothe him.

  Though the forestry in Mount Desert Island was heavier than the one in Trenton—and by simple logic should have given him greater power—it was not the case. Instead, it made Peter feel weak, sapped, and lifeless.

  It was the curse of Woodfolks. What good were powers when they didn’t work well in your home town?

  Breathing in the same air as the anguished woods was starting to take a toll on him. He had misjudged his ability to find solace in the emotions of the surrounding trees while fighting its pull down a dark, depressive path. The resistance he had built up against this as a child had obviously crumbled by reason of lack of use.

  Peter struggled for a moment to regain his composure.

  In the rearview mirror, he could see the weird look in the driver’s staring eyes. Peter turned away, feeling a teardrop slide down his left cheek. He hadn’t felt this much pain since the time he left Maine.

  The rolling trees by the side of the road oozed a deep-seated agony. The smiling faces of passersby starkly contrasted the blanket of strife that clung to the atmosphere over the Island.

  Peter knew they couldn’t feel the woods like he could; nevertheless, it didn’t stop him from loathing them for their insensitivity. It was plain cruelty, ignorance or no ignorance.

  When they turned onto Knox road, Peter felt his breathing shallow out. He tried to correct the anomaly by taking deep breaths, but his heart had started to race again. The pictures of doom had returned, this time with a more vivid clarity.

  Things happened in Bar Harbor. Dangerous things.

  The driver slowed the cab as they approached his destination. A couple of turns later and they ended up on Mill Brook Road, where the forestry was densest and the pedestrian traffic light, if not nonexistent. They drove past several houses tucked neatly within the trees on the roadside.

  As they drew up to his stop, Peter scolded himself for being so careless that he had ended up in this situation in the first place. He grabbed his backpack and paid the driver, heading down a downtrodden path off the main road.

  He ignored the inquisitive eyes of the driver, which no doubt drilled holes into the back of his head. Although the path was wide enough to be driven on, Peter knew that they would never make
it past patrol.

  Peter soon arrived at the lookout post, which was in the guise of a large one-story residential building made entirely of polished wood. Standing beside the house in the glaring sun was Mr. Barkley. Five dozen pieces of chopped wood lay in scattered heaps of six around him.

  Another man, whose hands were balled up in fists, stood a few yards behind Mr. Barkley. This man was dressed like a gang biker, chains, tattoos, and all.

  “Hello, Mr. Barkley,” Peter said as he approached the man. “It’s me. Peter.”

  A look of confusion appeared on the man’s face.

  “Peter?” the man said, unsure of himself.

  Sanders Barkley was one of Peter’s father’s right-hand men. He was quite strong with his Levitating skills, as Peter remembered, although it was easy to dismiss the man, what with his puffy appearance, tender eyes, and simple attire of a plain button-down shirt and pants.

  Men who have dismissed him so easily aren’t alive today, Peter noted with grim satisfaction.

  “Yes,” Peter assured him. “I’m here to see my father.”

  A huge smile lit up Sanders’s face. He tackled Peter in a bear hug.

  “Peter!” he said afterward. “It’s been what … five years?”

  “It’s been a long time,” Peter admitted, not wanting to dwell on specifics.

  “Hey, Sanders, is everything alright there?” the man behind Sanders asked.

  “Everything is fine, Blake,” Sanders replied. “It’s Peter Crawford.”

  “Come on,” he said to Peter. “Let’s get you inside. Your father and brother will be thrilled to see you.”

  Peter wasn’t sure about that, regardless, he allowed the big man to lead him further down the path, leaving Blake behind to continue his watch.

  They walked in silence for a short while before Sanders began to speak.

  “A lot has changed since you left,” Mr. Barkley said.

  “Really?”

  “Well, first of all, your father is now Chief Elder.”

  Peter gave no indication to Sanders that he knew, when in fact he’d heard the news a couple of months ago. Grey Crawford had won by a unanimous vote of the Eldership.

  Because unlike Metallics, who had a monarchical system of governance, and Earthlings, who preferred democracy, Woodfolks favored a communal system of ruling its people. Each clan was guided by an Elder, who was a member of the Eldership.

  A Chief Elder was elected every two years, and he had a final say on every issue concerning Woodfolks.

  The main path reached a dead end of trees. Sanders led Peter off the main path into a narrower path, hidden by brambles and tree leaves. They forged deeper into the forest.

  The more time Peter spent in this region, the more the anguish tried to rend his heart in twain. It was as if he was being held in a torture chamber, hanging upside down with chains hooking him to two opposite walls that were slowly separating. He found himself stifling winces every now and then.

  Sanders, at first, didn’t seem bothered by the woods around. But then, with time, Peter noticed painful expressions come and go on his face. He, too, felt it. Maybe not as soundly as Peter did, but Sanders sensed the anguish, resistance, and death.

  Or, does he even know what he senses is anguish? Resistance? Death?

  Peter hadn’t always been able to sense wood with such remarkable clarity as to pinpoint their particular emotion. Did that even make sense? He could Levitate wood—and had been able to do so since he Sprouted—quite all right. But never had he been able to empathize with them or even hear their voices. Somehow, coming back to Maine had triggered this new … ability?

  “There are more people living in the Tree House now,” Sanders announced.

  “What? Do you mean a lot of people?” Peter asked, his neck snapping to face the older man. He didn’t really like a lot of people. Too many variables.

  “It’s as if he couldn’t bear to be left alone after you left,” Sanders said. “I mean, when he became Chief Elder he took in a whole lot more people as is the custom. But it all started when you left.”

  Sanders grabbed Peter’s hand and pulled him to a stop. “Listen to me, kid,” he said in a serious tone. “You left us for good.”

  Peter started to protest. “Mr. Barkley—”

  “Ah, ah,” Sanders cut him off. “No one’s accusing you of anything. What I’m saying is I hope you’re back for good.”

  Peter didn’t reply. He was anything but back for good and he saw no reason admitting to this fact since he was only here to use them. Not that he wanted to. If he had a choice, he wouldn’t even be here.

  As it turned out, this was his last desperate option. It was either this or face death, and he would rather face this than face death. Although being here was almost certainly deathly, if he slipped in and slipped out within a day or two maybe he could yet save his skin.

  Sanders shrugged and pointed down the narrow path to a point where it was cut short by a tall wooden fence.

  Peter frowned. He didn’t remember the Tree House having a fence. He approached the fence for a closer look, leaving Sanders behind.

  These trees weren’t from around here, he could instantly tell. They felt out of place, which meant they had been Levitated into place.

  Each trunk was about thirty feet in diameter and shot up to a height of a hundred feet. Like a series of bamboos thrown together to form a raft, the massive trees had been thrown together to form a great wall that could have easily rivaled the Great Wall of China.

  The imposing wall stretched away on either side for several yards before curving inward and out of sight.

  Peter stood rooted in reverence. He focused on his power core and then reached out to stroke the fence before him. The wood was hard—very hard—and unyielding.

  “Baobab,” Peter whispered in stupefaction. Again, unsure he was really seeing what he saw, he looked to the right, following the fence as it stretched east and out of sight.

  “Fire-resistant barks. Leafless most of the year. Toughest tree known to man,” Sanders said with a hint of pride in his voice. “The Great Wall, we call it. Perfect to protect the Tree House. Of course, we still have patrol units roaming the surrounding forest.”

  How is this possible? Peter thought to himself. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. It would have taken an unimaginable amount of power to make the wall.

  It was staggering just thinking about it.

  “These trees don’t even grow here. How could he have so many in so little time?”

  Sanders smiled. “Growing them was the easy part. It took your father one year to have them grown. He paid good money for any Woodfolk who was willing to grow a Baobab seedling into maturity. After that, he had them transported here. Then came the hard part.

  “It took your father four years to Levitate them into place under the resistive conditions of this region. Almost killed him.”

  Sanders’s voice trailed off. “I can still remember the several nights he vomited blood. The paleness of his skin. The shallowness of his breaths. Ceaseless feverish nights. It’s been one year, and he’s still recovering his strength.”

  Sanders looked up at the trees around them with a pained look in his eyes.

  Oh, Sanders felt it quite all right. The resistive conditions of this region. But Peter felt more. He felt the struggle and strife the trees radiated like an enraged sun.

  Sanders sighed. “In the end, I believe he did it after…” Sanders couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “Say it,” Peter snapped.

  “After Cynthia died and you left,” Sanders completed his statement. “He swore never again to lose any of his children to the accursed Metallics. Now, no one can get in unless they can Levitate wood.”

  The man turned away from the fence. “Look, kid, I’ve got to get back.” Without a farewell, the man trudged back the way they came.

  Peter was not sure how Sanders expected h
im to get through the fence. How did people get through the wall? he wondered.

  Through Wood Levitating, Peter thought to himself.

  But how could he get through? He hadn’t done any serious Levitating since he left—it was the quickest way he could think of to forget his past. Now he was expected to Levitate the hardest wood known to man in a region that made it extremely difficult to Wood Levitate?

  Peter was beginning to think that his father had built this wall specifically to keep him out. After all, what rights did he have? He had left, hadn’t he? He was the cowardly son who had betrayed his people and run away.

  If only there was another way, Peter thought with frustration and anger.

  No, this was the only way. He had survived much, he could surely survive the humiliation. What mattered, in the end, was that he continued to live.

  He took deep breaths as he got ready to perform the impossible. He focused on his power core. It was like a bright blazing orb in the midst of his heart, the confluence of three power factors: oxygen, hemoglobin, and ATP—the body’s energy molecule.

  As he focused on the core, he felt it flare a bit, his sensitivity peaking. Immediately, the pain came rushing back. It swirled in his mind for a few seconds.

  Peter sensed intense rage buzzing with life in each cell and pore of the trees. He then put a leash around the storm and brought it under control like a chariot’s master.

  Stage one, Peter thought to himself. Conquer inertia. Accomplished.

  Peter stepped forward. This close to the foremost Baobab he could perceive its fruity scent. He puffed out a breath of air, swallowed hard, and touched the rough surface of the Baobab.

  Immediately, images of each tree that formed the fence flooded his mind. He instantly knew where they’d been grown, how they had been grown, and what Woodfolk had grown them.

  It was strange.

  He could sense each one of the Baobab trees. He could perceive their specific scent and taste their sweet tangy flavor on his tongue. Hundreds of Baobab formed the fence, and each one of them seemed eager to flood his mind with its own information.

  Soon, Peter became overwhelmed.