by Scott Taylor
The main administration office/the bridge control room:
The bridge officers watched as the small ship prepared to leave the docking port. It was seen on the view screen, the aft thrusters sending out quick, sharp jets of antimatter.
‘Detract mooring clamps’ spoke the com technician.
‘Mooring clamps are detracted, sir’ came the sudden confirmation. ‘Malecarjan’s ship is clear of the docking port.’
Cougar Chuko gave a toothy smile as he glared up at the view screen. He thought of the prisoner in his hold, the ambassador, a VIP of a sort. What a world of opportunity he presented! Why, he thought with a devious flick of his tongue, he could hold the Sinistrom ambassador to ransom. He could make money, more money than the gods themselves. Or perhaps he could make even more money if he just allowed the ambassador to simply die—to die horribly in front of a paying crowd of people! Now this idea had possibilities!
‘That pompous ass!’ Cougar spoke under his breath as he watched Malecarjan’s shuttle speed off into the great blue yonder. ‘I’ll be damned if I’m keeping such an important prisoner around in my dungeons. That is inviting trouble. He wants the ambassador so much let him get his own fancy boy. I have other plans for our…guest.’
Cougar Chuko pressed a button that activated a small video feed. The tiny screen located about his computer station came to life and transmitted a small image. A view of a large room in the lower levels of Urban Cloud presented itself to his gaze. This room was only slightly lit, with straw and what appeared to be gnawed bones littering the floor. Horrific loud groans indicated that the room was indeed occupied by something large, a beast of some description.
‘I believe it is time we put on a little show for our…guest’ he uttered with a grin.
◆◆◆
The ambassador sat in his cell, chained to the wall. These guest quarters were far from adequate, he thought to himself miserably as the guard stood outside, ever primed and ready for the slightest movement, or possible insurgency—as if the force field obstructing the entrance to his cell wasn’t enough.
Tør looked up at the pig-face guard. He wondered if such a creature could be bribed in any way. These Head Hunters were always after gold or money, and the ambassador’s father had plenty to offer.
Alternately he could stage a diversion, and get the guard to be distracted for a moment while he stole the guy’s keys. Ah, what was he thinking? The pig-faced moron was probably so stupid that not even his foul odour was enough to distract him.
The ambassador sat back, folding his arms glumly. No, there was no use at all! He would just have to sit tight until some kind of ransom was paid. No doubt his father would come through for him before long.
In his mind suddenly he could hear the sounds of voices calling out in pain, and then fading into silence. Tør looked around thinking that it had come from an adjacent cell. But it was far too sharp, too accurate for that. No, it was more of a thought, a memory, and far too local to have come from anything in the immediate vicinity. Could it have been telepathy maybe? He could not say. It came again, louder than before. He had to clasp his hands flat against his ears this time, though the sounds were indeed in his head, and could not so easily be shut out. He caught a brief picture in his mind, a vague image of an orb glowing brightly and brilliantly in a room no larger than the cell he inhabited. The orb in his mind cried out in rage, forcing Tør to clasp his ears. The guard-the pig-faced thug standing outside-remained ignorant of the noise which apparently only the prisoner could hear.
Beyond the glow of the orb lay several winged reptiles. Tør recognised them as dragons. Yes, they were indeed dragons. He could remember reading about them in the books and fairy tales of his home world. These dragons were bright gold, though their affluent tincture had at once become dulled by the greed of their captors. He saw them imprisoned much like he was, and they were calling for help. They were calling to him. These dragons were saying that they were being used by their cruel masters, the Head Hunters, to gain profit and wealth. Their powers were diminishing as more people came to steel it from them. Tør swallowed as the sheer cruelty of the matter hit him full on in his mind’s eye. These dragons were nothing more than batteries to the Head Hunters. They were being used as transformers of a sort, and were being made to relinquish portions of their great powers to enhance and energise those who had come seeking such power. This power would be transplanted and stolen from its original owners and offered to anyone with deep enough pockets to pay for it.
Tør did not know how to respond to this plea for help, but somehow he could sense their pain. These dragons were getting weaker.
‘How can I help you?’ the prisoner cried.
Hearing this sudden outburst, the guard turned to face the ambassador.
‘Quiet!’ he grunted. ‘What is up with you? Are you ill?’
Tør clutched his head between his hands, his forehead furrowed, and his mouth twisted with the discomfort of the onward barrage. Images pressed against his mind, dark and painful to behold, and the sounds were getting more and more voluble and unbearable.
Suddenly the voices stopped. With his heart still knocking in his chest, Tør looked up with a certain relief, though could still feel the emotion left behind by those who had just tried to communicate with him.
Dragons, he thought. Were these the same dragons that kidnapped him? Until that moment in the market, when the danger came so swiftly, he had thought these creatures were nothing more than the figments of myth and the imagination. It took a real fire breathing dragon to teach him that not all myths were fabrications.
◆◆◆
Several hours had passed since the mages left that god forsaken town. The sun had begun to dip behind the mountains toward the west, taking with it the scorching heat, as well as the uneasy humidity, and threat of dehydration.
They reached a rocky valley surrounded by cactus and a smattering of gum trees. Dry in appearance, the spinifex grass grew in clumps amid stark rock formations, some of which rose like lofty plateaux harbouring accesses to underground caves, grottos that went on for miles beneath the sun scorched earth.
‘We’ll set up camp over there’ Marl suggested, pointing over at one of the plateaux several meters away.
From a neighbouring plateau a pair of eyes watched with apparent interest as the new arrivals set up camp. Tweak felt that maybe this little spying venture he had embarked upon was going to take forever. But it was his duty to act as a responsible citizen and see just where these blackguards were holding the ambassador.
As night fell the temperature dropped considerably. A fire began to blaze as the seven mages sat telling stories of their endeavours. As it turned out all of the mages were ex-military, veterans of a sort. Prince Fabian was eager to hear their various narratives. As it happened, Justas Marl started his career as a centurion at Aspiren, a city thousands of miles north of Mundor. He went on to explain that he left that vocation after only three months, and went on to become a barrister, like his father before him.
‘From soldier to notary…in just three months?’ questioned Fabian, looking surprised. ‘That is quite a leap!’
‘Ah, but I was never happy as an infantry soldier’ the man explained, ‘and I was more interested in law and justice than I was defending the corrupt laws of the state. I was like most, blinded by career, but truth is, I didn’t really have the heart for it. I was doing what was expected of me: I made money and lived in a modest dwelling alone, until the day I realised the truth: money, duty and security are poor substitutes for immortality.’
‘Immortality?’ enquired the prince, looking askance. ‘You mean like living forever sort of thing?’
‘I am talking about immortality in the numinous sense’ explained the other. ‘That instance when you shift from one set of beliefs to come wholly upon a fresh state of mind, which we call an epiphany, is the state of being that becomes connected with everything around you. But when you stumble upon a new awareness you d
iscover that all the old worldly trappings no longer hold any power over your thinking. The old world falls away like a shadow passing over a lake. The old me, that is the mortal me, would not have left home to travel. I lived from day to day afraid of taking a leap without safety nets. I paid my taxes. I grew frustrated. I drank a lot to forget my irritation, my indisposition. Death had me in its maw. Not death as in finality, I speak of the death in life: the death of inaction, the death of being always trapped in the same rut. Finally, death shall teach us the simple truth. We can only drag ourselves up from the mire. But man’s work always takes priority over life. What is achieved by all this mundane activity, then? I desire life without measure. But I attained it by taking root and thinking about the problem, the eternal problem. In the early days I had my father’s law books to inspire me. I wanted truth. I realised that I did not need the law as my ally. If a politician wants anything it is always self serving, not for the good of the people. If a law maker wants anything, it is truth. True he has the law to back him up, and the law can be a difficult taskmaster it is true, and sometimes the law can deny us the justice the heart oft desires, but I believed that one man could make the difference. I believed that if there was any wisdom and beauty in the world, the law could make it safe, and preserve the ideals as well as the people that were most dear to me. I suppose I was young and naïve. In the end, politics always intrudes. Greed is the mother of all kings, and the law is her servant. I trusted too easily in those days and was slow to question.
‘Now take a look at me. I have lived out my mortality and have pulled myself back from death. I am in tune to everything now. Even the stones that lay strewn along the dusty earth bear a resonance which my organs of sense can hear. Each and every one of us has a story. Each mage has a unique tale to tell, an anecdote born of not so unique beginnings.’
‘So, let’s hear your stories’ the young prince felt impelled to ask the others.
Colonel Warclaw smiled and instantly he sprang straight into the spirit of things by giving his account.
‘I’ve always been a soldier. Though I haven’t always looked like this.’
He gestured at his own face, knowing how unusual it looked. His skin was a deep blue with scales, and his eyes could actually extend outwards on stalks much like that of a shrimp or crustacean. He had plenty of armour covering both his shins and his torso, though most of this was part of what he called his exoskeleton.
‘I was part of a platoon that was sent to the Coast of Kurln. If you have ever been to the Coast of Kurln you would know that those golden beaches boast the greatest treasures known to man, as well as the most pernicious curses and traps ever devised by ancient man. Well, our king, a man known as Solomon ordered ten of us to fetch the riches of which had been spoken in legend. Truly, we were dubious about making such a perilous trek into such unknown territories, especially once we had heard the tales, the terrifying fictions based upon those coastlines. Sometimes even fictions have a flicker of truth to them. But the king’s word was law, so we made the long trek. Once we arrived we discovered the treasures of which had been burned in legend. We filled our sacks with gold, pearls, and as many trinkets as we could carry. Only two of us made it off that coast that day. The other eight in our platoon were either buried, or eaten, or were simply taken without any warning, never to be heard from again. I and my second in command, Iron May, were the only two survivors, if that is what you can call us. The curse came upon us when we tried to steal the gems. I don’t quite know what took place, it all happened so quickly. Iron May here was transformed into something completely other worldly, while I became this…this thing you see today. May’s flesh turned to metal. I watched in dismay as these spikes, as hard steel, emerged from her arms and legs like daggers! We became these things for only a brief time, and then we returned to normal. We were afraid, though gathering from what we could read from the old cave scriptures there was a penance. The scriptures were written in stone, most of which was difficult to read due to time and erosion, but from what we could gather the penance involved a transformation, a modification of both strength and physical appearance. We had become these things of great strength and power, though provisionally. The scriptures said that we had been ordained to guard the treasure for the rest of our natural lives, and that if we ever tried to leave that place we would go back to looking like freaks of nature: May with her metal skin, and of course me with my odd appearance.
‘True, we could not stay for very long. Our situation unfortunately was forced upon us by our king. This time it was Solomon who came in person and he was accompanied by his seventh legion. He and his men had travelled the long distance to the coast to find out what had happened to us. He was angry and thought that we had abandoned him, and had decided after all to take his treasure for our own. Of course, we had been mutated to guard the treasure at all costs. The curse of the grotto forced us once again to become these aberrations. The curse gave us weapons and a prowess with hand to hand combat, as well as great magic abilities to repel our former king and his army. Being the total cowards that we were we did not disagree with our new and terrifying mistress—this age old curse that forced us to fight. We went out onto the beach and we slaughtered every last one of our former kinsmen. King Solomon, obviously, had no idea that it was us. Not that it mattered much since it was Iron May here who sliced off his head.’
‘And I would do it again’ she spoke honestly and with much venom in her words. ‘Like Marl said, if it wasn’t for the politics and the self-serving greed of kings I would still be human.’
‘We stayed at the grotto for a time’ Warclaw continued, ‘and remained human for as long as we endured there, but a prison is a prison still, even if that prison promises normality. We headed away from the coast and the further we travelled away from the origin of our curse the more we began to resemble said curse. We are freaks true, but we found companionship within the brotherhood of mages. We learned to master our anger and channel it for good, though the memory of slaughter, and the recollection of a king that betrayed us remains a constant reminder to us both that life is full of treachery. But we also learned that friendship and honour is something earned, not simply offered to others as though it were their birthright.’
‘That is an impressive anecdote to be sure’ remarked Centorionn with a mild mannered tone. ‘My story is perhaps a little less impressive to be honest.’
‘Tell us’ prompted Fabian with interest. ‘How did you become half bull, half man?’
‘Oh, I was born this way. All of my people are segregated like this. We lived to the south, far beyond the great ocean of turbulence. There aren’t that many of us left. Those of us that remain are a simple, though peaceful people. We never made any trouble for anyone else, well, not until the ogres and giants came with their great appetites and their hunger for industry. They turned us into beasts of burden, and those of us who could not work they turned into livestock, and ate us. I was one of the few lucky ones who survived their tyranny. There really isn’t that much more to tell really.’
‘Did you have a family, friends back in the south beyond the sea?’ asked the prince, feeling saddened by Centorionn’s account.
The segregated creature just nodded, allowing a tear to trickle down his left cheek.
‘I had a life. If ever there was a time I felt truly at peace it was with my family, and wife, and children…All of whom I have not seen in a very long time.’
Centorionn fiddled with his bow string as he endeavoured to keep his emotions under check.
There was a sombre silence for a moment. Then Fabian asked the question:
‘Will you ever see them again?’
There was a moment or two’s hesitation as the mage wiped his face with the back of his wrist. The wounds had not been healed completely by time, and the creature was far too tired and weary to fight his sorrow that welled within him.
‘Excuse me’ he said, and rose to his feet (all four of them). As he walked away Fab
ian got up and sprinted over to him. Such a dear and gentle creature he was, and Fabian felt so terribly awful about dredging up the past as he evidently had.
‘I’m sorry’ he spoke as Centorionn stopped dead in his tracks.
‘About what…?’
‘I should not have asked about your folks.’
Centorionn smiled and patted the boy gently on the back.
‘No, I am a silly old fool. It has been years now and I should not be so thin skinned about it all.’
‘You still miss them…don’t you?’
The creature looked down at the ground forlornly.
‘I can barely hide it. Sometimes I look at my reflection and see myself as others must see me: as a beast filled with violence. My face, rudely cast, is a brute’s face.’
‘I don’t see that at all’ spoke the prince, reaching out with a gentle hand. ‘I see a gentle man, a sincere, tender man.’
‘That used to be true…before the dark days. Truth is, I seek revenge. I have sought retribution since it all started, since I watched those I love become food for the terrible creatures that preyed on us. I beat up those towns folk today, not out of self defence, but rather out of retribution. Every time I go into battle I see the faces of those who did me harm all those years ago.’
‘They weren’t human. They weren’t even alive in the purest sense.’
‘That maybe true, but that does not excuse how I felt’ the creature said, putting his hands before his eyes in shame. ‘The truth remains, those people were human once, had lives, and had people who cared for them. I am no different, or indeed no better than the ogres and giants who still terrorise me. I live out my passion and people get hurt.’
‘That is not true. And you are being too hard on yourself. You know it.’
The two were eventually joined by Katt Brutal and Marl. Both were deeply concerned for their four-legged companion.
‘It’s alright’ spoke Fabian, ‘he’s fine. He’s just a little tired.’