by Jason Parker
“Yes, yes, soon the only difference between us will be our darker skin color” she sighed. “I’ll be sure to buy you a nice pair of trousers next time we’re at a trading post.”
He laughed and reached across the space between them to grasp her hand. “All of Gandany is changing, but as long as we have each other, we’ll find our place in it.”
Whitestorm smiled and tightened her grip on his hand. They traveled in comfortable silence until the outline of huts appeared in the distance.
“Well, we’re almost home,” she said with little excitement.
“There seems to be a lot of activity. I wonder what’s going on,” Onartok said. He waved his arms and shouted, “Hey! Hello!”
Silence.
“Odd,” he mused. “I’m pretty sure some of them are looking right at us.”
“Isn’t that Kirima?” Whitestorm squinted. “Why’s she moving so funny?”
She suddenly reined in her horse causing the cart to list and Onartok’s mount to lurch, almost throwing him from the saddle.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered, pointing toward the village. “Look, they’re all moving weird.”
She dismounted and drew her sword.
“What are you…” he started, but she silenced him with a finger to her lips and motioned him to follow her.
They proceeded cautiously on foot. Nearing the outlying huts, Whitestorm saw the faces of her tribe mates pale and drawn with empty expressions. Their movements slow and uneven. She caught the scent of blood.
Looking past the nearest group of villagers, the oddly shaped objects she had mistaken for rocks at a distance resolved into a jumble of body parts. The pit of her stomach tightened as she saw entrails scattered beneath a headless torso, half eaten limbs, and heads with torn flesh and missing eyes.
“We need to fall back,” she said turning toward Onartok, but he was moving toward one of the desolate tribe members. It was Kamik, his mother.
“Onartok! No!” she screamed as he grabbed hold of Kamik’s arm.
She ran toward him, but her vaunted quickness and speed were inadequate. She watched helplessly as Kamik violently pulled Onartok’s hair and sank her teeth into the flesh of his cheek. Too late, Whitestorm reached them and flung Kamik aside, separating her from her son. Onartok dropped to his knees, staring at his mother in disbelief as he raised a hand to explore his wounded face and the blood flowing down his chin and neck.
Kamik recovered quickly and moved toward them with a jagged gait. Her lips were wet with Onartok’s blood and her jaws chomped on pieces of his flesh. The macabre transformation of the woman she had come to think of as her mother sent a chill through Whitestorm, but Kamik’s eyes, her raging hollow eyes, froze her to the very core.
Kamik lunged at her. Recovering from her momentary shock, Whitestorm easily sidestepped the clumsy charge.
“Please, Kamik, stop this!” Whitestorm pleaded.
Kamik uttered no reply as Whitestorm extended her leg in a sweeping motion, knocking Kamik off her feet before she could resume her attack.
“Mother, mother, mother,” Onartok repeated in a shallow voice. He stared blankly ahead and rocked back and forth on his knees.
“You have to get up!” Whitestorm yelled. She grabbed Onartok’s hands and tried to pull him to his feet, but he resisted and continued to rock on his knees.
“Mother, mother, mother.”
Whitestorm returned her attention to Kamik who scrambled to her feet and moved forward to continue her assault. Whitestorm searched her eyes for a glimmer of sanity but found only mindless rage. Raising her sword, she swung with a fury fueled by frustration and futility. Her blade struck Kamik below the mandible and cleanly removed her head. Kamik’s head toppled to the ground and her body fell toward Whitestorm and Onartok, showering them with a spray of blood.
“No! No!” Onartok bellowed and reached for Kamik’s head which had come to rest an arm’s length away. Pulling the head toward him, he cradled it and began pushing aside the bloody tangles of brown hair from the face.
Whitestorm put a hand on his shoulder. As she futilely searched for words of comfort she glimpsed movement in her periphery. Their skirmish attracted the attention of other tribe members who shuffled toward them with the same slow irregularity Kamik had displayed.
Whitestorm shook Onartok. “I’m sorry about Kamik, but you need to get up. We have to get out of here,” she urged, but his attention remained fixed on his mother’s inanimate face as he continued to stroke the matted hair.
Checking the advance of the oncoming horde, Whitestorm determined further hesitation meant death. She shook Onartok harder to no avail.
“Onartok! Get up now!” she screamed and slapped him firmly on his uninjured cheek. He rose and glared at her, holding Kamik’s head by a clump of hair. He began sweating profusely. The perspiration mixed with Kamik’s blood and his own, turning the droplets pink as they streamed down his face. Whitestorm searched his eyes and her heart sank, seeing the now familiar emptiness and unmitigated rage.
Onartok whipped Kamik's head toward Whitestorm. Caught off guard by the sudden attack, she dodged the gruesome cudgel solely by reflex, catching the brunt of the blow on her shoulder rather than her chin. The force of the impact caused the scalp to rip, leaving Onartok with nothing but a handful of Kamik's long brown hair. He moved forward, paying no attention as his mother’s head bounced away in the dirt.
Whitestorm’s shoulder throbbed. “Please, stop! Don’t make me do this. I love you!” she pleaded, but his eyes offered no hint of recognition, only fury as he continued his advanced toward her.
He was lost like Kamik.
This realization struck Whitestorm like an arrow to the heart. It was greater than any physical assault the mindless shell of Onartok could strike her with. The pain in her shoulder paled in comparison. Tears burned her eyes and ran down her cheeks as the rest of the tribe joined with Onartok's advance.
“No!” she howled in despair as she charged at Onartok. Thrusting hard enough to pierce his keratium underclothes she ran him through the chest with her blade. As she withdrew her sword, Onartok surreally and slowly crumbled and slumped to the ground. Unable to remove her eyes from him, she watched as the life drained out of him.
Instinctively evading the grasping hands of her tribe's onslaught, she forced her attention toward them and away from Onartok. Subconsciously masking the faces of her swarming tribe mates, she set her sword in a blur of thrusts, parries, and slashes. Moving faster than she ever believed possible, she hacked her way through the demented horde, caught up in a whirlwind of blood and limbs. Relentlessly pushing forward, she fought until those who remained abruptly halted and shambled away from her, departing the village as if obeying an unspoken command.
Gasping for breath, she considered pursuing them, but as the mental blinders she summoned during the battle dissipated, she was overcome by the magnitude of what she had done. All around her were the blood strewn faces of her friends and tribe mates. Arrluk and Akna, the brother and sister she trained in hunting techniques. Qopuk, the kind elder who had given her a home after her parents were killed by saumen kar. And Onartok, dear, sweet Onartok.
Desperate to erase what she saw, she lowered her sword and tightly closed her eyes. She tried to pretend it was just a sick dream and when she opened her eyes all would be normal, but the drops of blood sliding down her sword and splattering onto her boot dispelled any such illusions.
Opening her eyes and accepting the reality of the charnel house her village had become, Whitestorm girded herself for what she must do. Whatever unnatural sickness had infected and turned her tribe into a deranged legion of psychopaths would spread to other villages throughout the Northern Territory if it hadn’t already. She resolved to provide forewarning and help prevent this atrocity from repeating. She hoped it was not too late. Despite the urgency, she could not leave the remains of those she loved strewn across the gruesome battlefield of her village. She needed to pa
y them due respect and offer a final farewell.
Lost in a somber trance, Whitestorm erected a makeshift pyre in the center of the village. As she gathered the bodies and dismembered parts of her fallen tribe members, she noticed the letters V-L-A-D-R-I-K scrawled in blood on the walls of several huts. She was familiar with the histories of the rise and fall of Lord Vladrik, but how could a long dead oppressor be involved with the plague transforming her people? Perhaps the name was meant to instill fear, as if seeing loved ones become mindless savages was not horrifying enough.
Completing her funeral procession, Whitestorm placed Onartok at the front of the pyre. Tears welled in her eyes as she kissed her fingers and tenderly pressed them to his lips.
“May peace be with you my love,” she whispered and placed a small red block at the base of the pyre. Tossing a powder-like substance on the block, the edifice erupted in flames. Tears streamed down her face as the flames consumed her love. She turned away and wiped her eyes. She fashioned a torch with a spare plank and drifted through the village, igniting the huts as she passed by.
Reaching the spot where she and Onartok had left their horses earlier in the day, she stared blankly at the game in the connected cart and contemplated her next move. She inhaled deeply, attempting to maintain her composure and hold back the heaviness of her heart. She unlatched the cart, unsaddled Onartok’s mount, and shooed it away with a smack on the rump. Gracefully swinging into her own saddle, she urged her horse into a gallop toward the nearest village. Perhaps the science in the south could provide answers for what was happening to her people, but first, she needed to sound a warning. She would relate her gruesome tale throughout the Northern Territory and then ride south through the Auldhurst Forest and into Delon.
CHAPTER 3
“Jalen!”
Jalen Logan turned and looked down the hall toward the sound of the summoning voice. He saw Master Scientist Fodjan hurrying, almost hobbling, toward him. In his middle years, Fodjan was a balding dark haired man of average height with a girth that had increased steadily in the four years Jalen had studied at the Delon Science Institute, one of the two Science Institutes in Gandany. Jalen put a hand to his mouth to stifle a chuckle as he watched Fodjan attempt to move his great bulk at a rapid pace.
His clothes should have been retired twenty pounds ago. One day someone would be fatally injured when a button on Fodjan’s trouser enclosure would finally give up its struggle and spring forth violently assailing the poor soul in its path.
Catching up to Jalen, Fodjan took a deep breath and huffed, “Congratulations!” Pausing to take another breath he went on, “Not that anyone expected otherwise, but you’ve scored high enough on your exams to graduate with the designation of Scientist from this Institute. You’re the first in seven years!”
“Holy shit!” Jalen exclaimed embracing Fodjan. Over six feet tall, Jalen was several inches taller than Fodjan, but was swallowed by his arms. “I was confident, but it’s never official until it’s…official.”
“There was never any doubt,” Fodjan said, releasing from the embrace and patting Jalen on the back. “You’re a brilliant student.”
“Thanks,” Jalen beamed, “but I owe a lot to you and all you’ve taught me. I hope one day to be as skilled and accomplished a Scientist as you are.”
“Nonsense,” Fodjan said with a dismissive wave. “You’ll surpass me before the ink on your diploma dries. Anyway, this calls for a special feast! Graduation is only a week away so I’ll have to get busy. I want this to be my grandest yet. You deserve it.”
“I’m sure it will be fantastic,” Jalen nodded enthusiastically. “You’re feasts are legendary. I think I’m still full from the one you hosted last fall.”
“Well, as I like to say, if I’m going to be a fat ass I’m going to do my best to make sure everyone else is too,” he chuckled while patting his belly with both hands.
Jalen laughed. “Seriously, though, I appreciate all you have done for me both in and out of the classroom. All the students do.”
“That’s kind of you to say,” Fodjan smiled. “Now, I must be on my way. Congratulations again!”
Fodjan turned to leave, stopped, rubbed his temple, and then snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot, there is an impromptu demonstration tomorrow afternoon. You should definitely plan on attending. Wexworth, a Master Scientist from Harkovia and Chief Scientist to the Triumvirate, has made an unexpected visit to the Institute and has offered to share with us a particle force beam he created. I don’t know much about it, but it seems rife with that coolness factor you’re constantly prattling about.”
Jalen’s blue eyes widened. “Wexworth is here? That’s hard to believe.”
Fodjan cocked an eyebrow. “Ahh, so you’ve heard of him.”
“I read an interview with him in Science Monthly a while back,” Jalen replied. “He didn’t strike me as the type to travel around giving demonstrations. Honestly, he came across as an arrogant ass.”
Fodjan nodded. “Perhaps, but Science Monthly isn’t always objective in its portrayals. Wexworth graduated from the Tuvir Institute. We’ve not met so I know him by reputation only. He’s quite accomplished but your assumption is correct, he’s not an active participant in the science community. So, this visit is quite unusual. I suspect there’s more to it than just a benevolent demonstration, but I have no idea of the true purpose. He’s meeting with the Head Master now, but whatever the case it should be a most interesting demonstration tomorrow.”
Jalen scratched his head and folded his arms. “Wasn’t Wexworth involved in a controversy over keratium a few years ago? I know he developed the soft form of the fabric by improving the elasticity and texture, allowing it to be used as a protective undergarment. Anyway, he claimed since the original developer of keratium was unknown he should get the credit since he made such wondrous improvements.”
“Good to know you keep abreast of the science community scandals,” Fodjan smiled and hiked up his trousers. “The originator of cut resistant keratium fabric is not that mysterious if someone took the time to do a little research. Touchstone, the great Master Scientist who founded our Institute developed the fabric many years ago.”
“Really?” Jalen frowned. “I don’t remember hearing about that in my science history class. Sure, we learned about how Touchstone and the other three great wizards who survived the Vladrik war founded the two Science Institutes, but aside from steam engines, I don’t recall anything else being attributed to Touchstone.”
“Touchstone developed much of what we take for granted today. He enjoyed his privacy and was not one to make a grand announcement about each of his accomplishments. ” Fodjan said.
“Interesting,” Jalen nodded, “I’ll have to be sure and research him next time I’m in the library.”
“Regardless of the amount of credit he deserves for keratium, Wexworth has registered a number of scientific achievements. Granted, the majority have been minor, but I wouldn’t underestimate his scientific prowess and this force beam sounds promising. We’ll just have to overlook his asininity. Now, I’ve got a feast to plan. Congratulations again.” Fodjan waved and shambled down the hall.
“Wow, I’m actually going to be a Scientist!” Jalen thought as he smiled watching the ample girth of Fodjan disappear around a corner. “How cool is that?”
***
Jalen burst through the doors of the auditorium in the main building of the Science Institute and ran a hand through his sweat dampened sand colored hair. He paused for a moment taking deep breaths as he massaged his throbbing temples. Looking down he scowled at his plain brown trousers which looked like he’d slept in them, which he had. Despite the lateness of the afternoon, he had just managed to extricate himself from bed ten minutes ago and had no time to change.
The sprint from the student apartments to the auditorium exacerbated the queasiness in his stomach and gave new life to the hammers in his skull. He sighed upon noticing the buttons along the placket of his wh
ite shirt were out of alignment with the button holes. Hangovers were definitely not cool.
Once he re-buttoned his shirt and was certain he was not going to vomit, he scanned the drably painted auditorium with tiered rows of wooden seats. Most were occupied. His attention was drawn to the large presentation area on the auditorium floor which was set up with an array of equipment on a pair of tables. On the first sat a black mechanical device the size of a large watermelon. Two spiral copper tubes joined the back of the device to a small brass cylinder mounted above a burner pan. Burettes were clamped above three openings along the top of the device. The burettes were filled with liquids, two clear and one a dark red color. The liquids varied in quantity and were suspended in the burettes by stopcocks with thumb valves. When the stopcocks were opened, the contents of the burettes would each flow into a separate compartment of the device.
Jalen presumed that once drained into these individual compartments, the contents of each burette would then be mixed in some fashion within the inside of the main body of the device. A smaller chamber with a circular opening of about an inch in diameter was connected to the main chamber by a two inch copper pipe. The opening was pointed toward the second table upon which sat a large green tinted glass vase.
Word of the demonstration had obviously spread quickly.
There were eighty-two students enrolled in the Science Institute of who nineteen were in Jalen’s graduating class. He searched the crowd and saw Fodjan standing on one side of the auditorium floor along with Head Master Rainstel and Sandstar, the Institute’s other Master Scientist. All three were dressed in formal black robes. The five Scientists comprising the remainder of the Institute faculty were seated in the front row. About a third of the way up from the floor he noticed his two classmates and best friends Rondel Cassen, who everyone called Ron, and Laurela Frankev. An empty seat was sandwiched between them. Unlike himself, neither looked any worse for the wear after a night of celebrating. Ron always recovered at a supernatural rate and Laurela exercised moderation when imbibing.