Blood and Chaos: The Collected Low Lying Lands Saga (The Low Lying Lands Saga)

by Bob Williams

“Well, go back and fucking get some guns. I’ll wait.”

  “Prescott ... this feels wrong,” says Shields. “Let’s go back, regroup, and think of a new way. How did he even know we were here?”

  “Who knows,” says Cole. “Angels and Demons shit probably. Outta my purview.”

  “No fuckin’ way. We’re having a chitchat with this shitbag right now. Go and get your shit and we’ll all go together. I’ll wait.”

  The burning man lies on the ground, continuing to flame broil. The stench of his scorched flesh is ripe in my nostrils, and the discouraging thing is, it doesn’t seem to bother me anymore. Cole and Shields are back before I know it, and Lexi completes the team. It’s time for us to finally introduce ourselves to the enemy.

  “You’re sure you want to do this, Prescott?”

  “No doubt in my mind, Cole. I can feel it. This is only supposed to be a meet and greet.”

  We stand four across, and I suppose if this was a movie, we would be walking in slow motion, toting our weapons, with the guy still ablaze in the background. I would be totally moving with AC/DC’s “Back in Black” for this scene.

  The view up ahead starts to clear up the closer we get. Admiral Shen looks to be about six-foot-who-gives-a-fuck with about two hundred or so turds behind him. He has the girl with him, who, aside from normal-looking black hair, is one step up from Lori Petty in Tank Girl. On the ground in front of them is an older salt-and-pepper-bearded man with a piece of his face missing. And to round out the party are the Freaks. As previously stated, a shitload. Of note, the Freaks aren’t broken. But shit, man, you can feel it on the air like it’s tangible.

  We cautiously stride to within five feet of Shen and stop. Before we can react, the Freak contingency migrates around behind us like the black oil from The X-Files. In seconds, we are hopelessly trapped.

  Fuck. Did I get this wrong?

  No, Prescott. You did not.

  Malcolm!

  Proceed, Prescott!

  Someone—undoubtedly Cole—puts his forearm in between my shoulder blades and brings me back.

  Okay. Stay outta my fuckin’ head for the time being.

  “Hello. My name is Prescott. These are my friends, Michael Cole and Laura Shields. But you already knew that. And you must be Grand Moff Tarkin.”

  “Amusing,” says Shen. “You must know with absolute certainty, standing here under the darkness of night, that you are, for all intents and purposes, dead.”

  “That’s debatable. I may not look tough, but I can throw a mean right hook.”

  “Prescott,” says Shields, “let him say whatever he feels he needs to so we can get back to the house.” And then to Shen, “Admiral Shen, thank you for the invitation. We appreciate your willingness to summit before the fighting begins. You are a most worthy and honorable adversary. We look forward to the upcoming battle ... where the forces of good will undoubtedly triumph over the evil tyranny you represent.”

  “I’m slightly aroused, Commander,” I whisper.

  “Your words, Miss Shields, are eloquently spoken. I respect your conviction. My opening salvo will be more ... actions than words. Mr. Prescott—”

  “Can we go ahead and get this out of the way?” says Cole. “He doesn’t like being called Mr. Prescott. Please respect his wishes going forward.”

  Shen jerks his head violently toward Cole and barks, “Sit down and shut up, Mr. Cole.” He merely waves his hand in Cole’s direction and a violent bone-crunching sound fills the air. Cole falls instantly to the ground, screaming in outright agony while grabbing at his ankle. I have never seen Cole display straight-up pain this way before. It must be a brutal injury.

  “I said shut UP!”

  Cole quiets immediately, despite the fact he still appears to be screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Okay, okay. Admiral, you have our attention. We are prepared to listen. Please proceed,” I say. My nerves are a bit shot, even though I know Malcolm is present.

  Admiral Shen gives a short bow, never taking his eyes off me.

  “As I said earlier, my opening statement will contain few words, but I feel extremely confident that my message will be received loud and clear.”

  “Very well, Admiral,” says Shields, who is tending to Cole. “Our friend needs medical attention right now. Please continue so we can get him back to our quarters.”

  Shields—mother and diplomat.

  “Fine. You may be wondering who this dead man is, lying at my feet?”

  Prescott. Whatever happens here, right now—stand strong! Do not show Shen a shred of weakness. He will crush you if he sees you even blink.

  “The thought had crossed my mind. Who is it?”

  “His name is Jonathan Gregor Poplovich.”

  Fuck!

  “You may know him as Pops. That is what Malcolm told you, right? Malcolm told you to come here, find the body of Pops, and provide him a proper burial. As if that means a damn thing.

  “Well, I have some disappointing news for you, Prescott. Pops will not receive a proper burial. In fact, he will not receive a burial at all. And I hope to—”

  “Let me stop you right there. You said just a minute ago that you weren’t going to talk that much. Just doing the math in my head, you’ve already used more words than Shields did, with no signs of slowing down.”

  Malcolm, tell Pops I’m sorry. We tried to get here as fast as we could. We failed him.

  I will convey the message to Eric, his instructor. I understand what you’re doing. It must be terribly painful. Fight on!

  No! You tell Pops yourself, from me, that I am sorry. I failed him. But whatever is about to happen here will not go unpunished.

  “Mr. Prescott!”

  “I know you’ve been told not to call me that.”

  “You insolent little bastard. I am your destruction. I am pestilence. I am pain. I am—”

  “Sam I am?” I ask.

  “Do. Not. Interrupt. Me!”

  “Well, then, say something relevant. You sound foolish.”

  “Your friend Pops will serve the many in death. More so than he did in life. I wonder, Prescott, what do you think a Point of Light tastes like?”

  Shen crouches down briefly and runs his finger through the open flesh part of Pops’s face. He brings the finger up and puts it into his mouth. He then closes his lips around it and sucks as he pulls the finger slowly out. His face looks like he has just tasted the sweetest pastry the local baker had to offer. His eyes flash open, and a wicked, tooth-filled grin is on his face.

  “I must admit, that was delicious. Truly. But I am trying to watch my figure, so I’d just as soon share this heavenly treat with all of my friends.”

  “Admiral Shen! Please don’t do this!” pleads Shields. “You have already defeated Pops and his team. There is no need to humiliate him anymore. You know the stakes. You know he’s joined the Protectorate. There is no need for this. Fight the enemy in front of you!”

  “Ah, Miss Shields. There is a need for this. There is an extremely valid reason why I must do this. Your friend Prescott is arrogant. He is selfish, and he is not who he pretends to be. I will strip him down and show you the core of the man you follow. He’s no better than me, Kendrick Kade, or anyone else still left fending for themselves upon the Low Lying Lands.”

  “Now, wait a cotton pickin’ min—”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Mister. Prescott!”

  Shen reaches down and grabs Pops’s lifeless right arm by the wrist. He places his boot firmly in the armpit of the naked body. He then looks me square in the eyes. A look that violates every quantifiable inch of my body, mind, and soul.

  “You.”

  He rips the arm from the body with brute strength. Bones crack, crunch, and crumble. Skin stretched to its maximum capacity gives way under the pressure. Congealed blood and gore oozes from severed appendages and splatters to the ground.

  Oh shit. The Freaks.

  Shen raises the arm in the air and begins to wave
it around frantically. Body fluids and chunks of flesh spatter the Freak brigade that surrounds us. Cole, Shields, and I catch a little bit of sprinkle, but it isn’t meant for us. He then tosses the arm into the bloodthirsty crowd with a high lob. He casually strides over to the other side of the body. He grabs the other arm, places his boot again, and dislodges it with cruel and detached precision. He allows once again for chunks to fall down upon him and Tank Girl before throwing the arm far back into the crowd. Screaming, growling, and violence erupts, as not only the scent of blood, but the sight of it as well sends Freaks into a massive break.

  “Can’t.”

  I can’t speak. For all the world, my mind can’t send the messages to my mouth to make words. For one of the very few times in my life, I am speechless.

  In a grand and utterly macabre showing, he crushes Pops’s genitals while grotesquely detaching both legs and feeding them to the riotous crowd. Shields continues to tend to Cole, but we both watch in defeat as the crazed and broken Freaks—who now have transformed into giant, deformed, blood-drenched monsters—fight over eating Pops’s remains.

  Shen isn’t done. After all the effort he’s gone through to make this statement, there will indeed be an exclamation point. He sizes me up. In this very moment, he may possibly believe he has me. That it is all over but the shoutin’. But that’s what I need him to see.

  This is not what I expected. Maybe it is I who underestimated him. But how could I have done that? I don’t know him. He has been killing angels, so he’s clearly off his meds. But we’re gonna walk away from this tonight and regroup. Somehow.

  Shen walks back over to the defiled body of Jonathan Poplovich and stands over it. Again he sets his sights on me and lets loose a glare that sends a stone-cold shudder right down my spine. Shen shushes the horde. When he knows he has the attention of everyone in the crowd, he removes a massive knife from its hilt on his hip.

  Malcolm. Is that the knife you told me about?

  Yes. The Rohan Dagger.

  Fuck.

  Indeed.

  Admiral Shentaka Matsura kneels one final time. Grabs a tuft of Pops’s hair and pulls it tight. With his dagger hand, he cuts off Pops’s head in one easy, cold, and precise motion. He stands proud and holds the head high into the night for the crowd to see. They erupt into a frenzy.

  “Win,” Shen says.

  “You will pay for this. Mark my words. This is going to end very badly for you.”

  “Hollow words from a soundly defeated opponent. You can’t win. You simply can’t.”

  “I guess we’ll see, motherfucker.”

  “Yes. I suppose we will. Rest up.” He then turns to face the crowd. “Quiet! Quiet! Let them pass. It’s time for their walk of shame.”

  I help Shields get Cole to a standing position. He is cold to the touch yet sweating profusely. He’s in shock. We need to get him back and ... what? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.

  The crowd of broken and blood-soaked Freaks are under Shen’s complete control. They slowly part and watch with drooling mouths and violent stares as we pass. We walk out of Shen’s camp with our heads held high, but our spirits, that’s another story. I just don’t see a way out of this one.

  THE NAMING

  Emily Prescott sat alone in her chambers. She was consumed with worry and nearly sick with anticipation at the thought of joining the battle. She closed her eyes and began a feeble attempt at the meditation exercise Meredith had taught her.

  Hold tight, brother. I’m coming. We will be reunited. We will stand side by side once again. Just the two us. And we will destroy our common enemies.

  Emily knew she was different now. She was no longer the innocent, naive sister that her brother had to protect. She no longer wore her emotions on her sleeve. She had been wronged on a level no one could possibly understand. Hatred burned in her heart for those who would wrong the innocent. Her days of volunteering at soup kitchens and passing out coats to the homeless were over. She had real power now. She could sway the outcome now, unlike all those years of swimming upstream to no end.

  I will face Admiral Shen alongside my brother. But Chaos, I’m coming to get you! And I will kill you.

  The door burst open and in rushed Meredith, looking frantic and frightened.

  “Quickly, child. To the armory. The situation is declining rapidly and your brother needs you.”

  Meredith and Emily, teacher and student, left with haste from the chamber with nary a glance backward. Emily would not be returning to this cell again, for she would be either dead or celebrating her new status as member of the Protectorate.

  “Listen as we walk, Emily. Time moves at a slightly different pace upon the Higher Grounds. There is much to do, very little time to do it, and sadly, even less time for your brother, fighting his battle on the Low Lying Lands.”

  “Help me understand. How differently?”

  “Since the Knowledge has decided that you will fight this day, a decision with which I wholeheartedly agree, you are, for the moment, bypassing years of training. There are terms, practices, and lessons you typically must learn before wearing the armor.”

  Meredith breathed a long sigh.

  “Please tell me!”

  “One does not simply put on the armor, Emily. There is a ... ritual, if you will. It cannot be sidestepped. Even though, on the battlefield below, the situation has turned dire, you must complete the ceremony.”

  “What is the ritual? What must I do? How long will this take? The first words you uttered to me when you entered my cell where, ‘We must hurry ... your brother needs you.’” Emily was fraught with nerves and impatience. “I’ve just been granted permission to fight beside my brother, who you claim desperately needs me. Now I am told I must delay this battle for a ceremony?”

  “Emily, my dear child, there is so much for you to learn. What is happening to you right now, whether you believe it or not, is a tremendous disservice to you. You must redirect your anger, your fear, and your impatience as best as you possibly can under the circumstances. You must be of absolute sound mind, and emotionally restricted, in order to face this challenge and complete the ritual. Now, come; we must hurry.”

  Teacher and pupil continued down the long corridor, which to Emily seemed to have more twists and turns than the Chicago sewer system. Finally they came to yet another of the very popular, heavy, thick, wooden doors of the Higher Grounds.

  “Stand behind me, please. You must be formally introduced to the Armorist.”

  “The Armorist?”

  “Yes. The Armorist, with the exception of the Senior Council, is one of the single most important members of the Protectorate Guard. He was given your specifications almost immediately after the Knowledge granted you status. You must meet him, though. He must get a feel for you, and then set you on the path for the ritual.”

  “Meredith, ma’am. We don’t have time for this. I need to be with Prescott now. More than ever,” pled Emily.

  “No, child. You will complete the Naming. Or you will return to your cell, where you will quickly be forgotten while you sit there for a thousand years. I’m sorry to be harsh, but you need to grow up very quickly, or you will not complete the Naming. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, teacher.” No, teacher!

  “Very good.” Meredith removed a key from her tunic and inserted it into the door. Once she pulled the door open, a steep stone staircase was revealed that descended into darkness.

  “Follow me.”

  Emily did as she was instructed. Torches, dispersed evenly on the descending wall, caught fire of their own accord and lit the way. This made Emily feel only a hair better than she did before.

  “Frain the Armorist,” said Meredith. “He was a murderer as a low lyer. While in his low-lyer confinement he discovered the Superior. He converted with entirety of mind and soul to serve the Superior. And he did faithfully for seventeen years, much to chagrin of others who would use his talents for murder and mayhem. Frain was murdered
in his cell.

  “He joined the Protectorate, but does not choose to see the light of the Higher Grounds. According to him, he will atone for his sins here in the armory forever. He was forgiven by his victim’s parents; he was forgiven by the Superior. Yet he will not forgive himself.

  “Frain has made you the armor. The question that remains is: can you wear it?”

  A short journey down the spiral staircase led them into the center of a very large room. So large, in fact, it mirrored the open floor plan of an 800-square-foot apartment. Strewn throughout the entirety of the workspace were various metalcraft stations. Lining the north wall were rows of tools including mallets, tongs, sharpening stones, and a host of other instruments. Emily had seen plenty of movies, Excalibur, for one, but couldn’t presume to know what all of these instruments were.

  A loud WOOSH erupted behind her and Emily jerked around in time to see the back of a very large man stoking the coals of an extremely hot and rather oversized furnace. He turned briefly and acknowledged the presence of his visitors before pulling a red-hot piece of metal out of the furnace and dipping it into a vat of water. Undoubtedly he’d have to return to that project, most likely a sword, later.

  Meredith placed her hand on Emily’s arm and gently guided her back behind her. She could in no way be presented to Frain as an equal. She was a student. Less than a student. Meredith felt confident that Frain would not be happy about making armor for an untrained warrior.

  It was Frain’s nature to be protective with his armor. Ever since he had confessed to the Superior, it no longer occurred to him on any level to take life. He joined the Protectorate to preserve life. You could bet the armor he made for Emily would be exceptional, but would it be enough on its own if the girl couldn’t fight?

  Meredith led Emily around the spiral staircase and over to Frain’s current workstation. He didn’t immediately turn around. Frain had dipped the metal piece in the water, yet he continued to hold the piece up to the torch light, inspecting it. Meredith knew there was much work still to be done on Frain’s current project, and she hated to stop him now. But, alas, he had a different job to do.