Hunter Brown and the Consuming Fire

by Chris Miller

  My depressing outlook was apparently contagious. Trista didn’t give any fight to that argument, but only looked down at her feet and nervously fingered one of the bracelets on her wrist.

  I continued, “That’s the part that bugs me. Why has he been abandoned? If there had ever been leaders courageous enough to mount a rescue mission to Dolor, it would have been Petrov or Aviad, but they never did and now they’re both gone. If Sam’s not worth rescuing then how can we expect something more?”

  “You certainly know how to cheer a man up,” a mysterious voice interjected from the back shadows of our cell. Until now, I had not realized that anyone else was in the tight quarters with us.

  “Where…who are you?” I challenged, trying to discover more about our apparent cellmate.

  The face of a long-haired, long-bearded man leaned forward into a faint patch of light. “You could call me by my name, but as you may have noticed, it’s somewhat taboo in these parts. It’s best you know me as Four-one-two-six for now.”

  Though there were obvious outward signs that he had done significant time here in Dolor, he still looked to have taken care of himself. His hair, though long, was neatly pulled back and held by a strip of torn cloth. Underneath the inescapable grime and the scarred numbers across his forehead, his face looked strong, young, handsome and full of life, his green eyes a particularly striking feature.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the man held out an undernourished but able hand in friendship, shaking my hand vigorously. “It’s not every day I am fortunate enough to have a visitor; in fact, you’re the first!”

  “I’m Hun…uh, I mean I’m...” I instinctively looked up at my forehead as I tried to remember my given number.

  “New, I see,” the man chuckled, taking Trista’s hand in greeting as well with a graceful nod.

  “Tell me,” Four-one-two-six’s eyes sparkled as they danced between Trista and me, “what news do you have of the Resistance?”

  There was an awkward pause as Trista and I struggled to sort out a bit of “good” we could share from what news we had. From my perspective, all of it kept returning to the same dead end named “failure.”

  “That bad, is it?”

  I couldn’t look at him when I answered. “It’s all falling apart, the whole Resistance.”

  Trista added, “We had hoped our mission would change that but…well, here we are.”

  Four-one-two-six nodded his head solemnly as he walked over to the cell’s door and gazed out into the endless grey. I felt awful. People like him (like us now, for that matter) needed hope, but I had nothing to give.

  Turning around, Four-one-two-six invited us to join him at the door. “Look out there. Tell me what you see.”

  I hardly gave a glance before answering, “Nothing.”

  Trista squinted into the fog, but only shrugged her shoulders. “It’s all grey to me.”

  “Interesting. You didn’t see what I could see.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  “The way out,” he stated plainly.

  “Way out? Where?” Trista and I both exclaimed in unison.

  “There.” He pointed to some indiscernible patch of fog, then over to another. “And there. And…here.” He gestured broadly to the cell itself and smiled.

  My first thought was how the years had not been kind to his mental stability. The next was to quickly gauge what kind of danger this certifiably crazy cellmate might pose to us.

  Trista’s response was a tad bit kinder. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” she said. “Maybe you can explain.”

  Following a soft chuckle, he obliged. “I am simply pointing out that where you look makes all the difference. When you limit your vision to what you see down here, I agree this place is quite dismal. But stop looking in the mud and turn your eyes skyward to the stars and I guarantee your view will improve.”

  I stole another look out the bars, this time looking up. “Uh… still looks the same to me.”

  “Hunter,” Trista elbowed me, “I think he’s talking about our attitudes.”

  “Partly,” Four-one-two-six clarified. “Your attitude will follow where you set your sights. Right now, your greatest enemy in Dolor is not the Scourge, but your own hearts. Now, tell me more about this mission of yours.”

  “It hardly matters now; the mission is over…. I failed.”

  “Why are you so sure of that?”

  “Well, we’re here, aren’t we?” I said, sarcastically. “I was supposed to protect the eternal Flame, to keep it from the Shadow’s hands until it marked the seven. The Flame would have restored hope to the Resistance.”

  “I see,” the man said, hiding a smile.

  “It’s hardly funny.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is. It’s just that you said you were supposed to protect the eternal Flame.”

  “So?”

  “Well, you can’t protect the Flame, son. The Flame protects you! The Flame is the essence of life—a spark of the Author himself! Make no mistake about it; it was not the Flame that needed protecting.”

  “Even so, we still failed. We trusted the wrong people, first a devious snark, and then Stoney, a friend.” I said “friend” but even as the word slipped off my tongue the wound of his betrayal was reopened. No, Stoney was not a friend; he was a traitor. A seed of bitterness planted firmly in my heart; I would never call him friend again.

  At this, the man’s smile faded, though his eyes still sparkled with unnatural joy.

  “Beware the company you keep. It is a lesson from the Author’s Writ itself. There are some in life who, although they may seem good and nice, will only distract you from your purpose and calling. Keep them, and your focus will be divided.”

  “But that’s just it,” Trista explained. “Stoney always seemed so genuine in his belief. I never would have thought he would betray us.”

  “It’s true, people don’t always do what we expect them to. Even our dearest friends can let us down. But the company I was referring to was the snark you chose to carry with you. Surely you knew that many snarks can be trouble.”

  “Yeah, I guess I just didn’t want to admit it. He was mine, you know?”

  “Snarks never belong to anyone. You belong to them.”

  His words cut to the heart of our problem. If we hadn’t kept Boojum, we wouldn’t have been in this mess to begin with. We might even have avoided the confrontation with Stoney and escaped with the Flame in our possession. This wasn’t the first time Boojum had led us astray. Rob had been right about him from the beginning.

  “Well, I sure made a mess of things this time,” I said. “The Flame is lost, maybe even in the hands of the Shadow, and now we’ll never get out of here to find it.”

  “But I’ve already told you…I know a way out.”

  We both looked at the man, waiting for him to share his escape plan.

  “Purpose,” Four-one-two-six emphasized. “That is the way out.”

  “Purpose?” I laughed cynically. “No secret tunnel? No rescue…just purpose?”

  He didn’t take offense, but nodded calmly.

  Trista took a little more time to deliberate her response, reflecting on what he might be saying. “So…do you mean ‘purpose’ like in ‘Nothing comes from nothing’ sort of purpose?”

  Four-one-two-six smiled broadly and expounded on her insight. “Yes! The Code brings life to all who take it to heart. If we believe that all things were created by the Author, then by extension, everyone and everything has a purpose, even our circumstances, even suffering.”

  “Dolor? You’re telling me that three years of persecution and torture—that you can find purpose in all of those wasted years?” I asked incredulously.

  “Ah. So are you proposing some things to be untouchable by the Author? Perhaps he
re in Dolor we are too far for him to reach?” he gently challenged.

  How could I argue that point? Of course I believed the Author was still in control. Didn’t I? Either way, it didn’t make it any easier to reconcile all the pain around us. “But I don’t understand. How does purpose…?”

  “It gives hope,” Trista excitedly chimed in. “Think about it, Hun…er, I mean Four-eight-six-whatever. If we’re here on purpose, then that means we are still in the Author’s plan! He knows where we are, and even planned for us to be…here…even me.”

  “Well said,” Four-one-two-six praised Trista’s conclusion. “There are no loose ends, no forgotten pieces. You have an important part yet to play or you wouldn’t be here.”

  As I wrestled that concept of “purpose” across my own rough landscape of recent failures, I began slowly to see a clear, connected path through all of its twists and turns, a way of truth and life. Suddenly, our present circumstances didn’t seem so overwhelming. The revealing light of this truth chased off the shadows and caused my whole perspective to change.

  We have never gone beyond the Author’s reach. He is with us, even here. Never alone!

  “Remember this truth, always,” our wise cellmate instructed us, “and it will set you free.”

  From beyond our prison bars, a deep horn blared loudly, filling the fog-laden courtyard with the thrum of its foreboding echoes. Trista quickly followed me to the door and we pressed ourselves against the bars in an effort to see what was happening.

  In swirling patterns, the fog outside began to separate and compress, clearing the center as it supplied bodies to the hundreds of Scourge spirits now amassing around the perimeter ledges. One stationed itself just outside our cell. Something big was happening. I couldn’t help but feel like the curtains were being drawn back, the lights dimming, the suspense building at the start of a show—only we were chained to our seats and forced to wait and watch the horror unfold.

  “What’s happening?” Trista said anxiously, turning back to Four-one-two-six for an explanation. He didn’t answer.

  “He’s gone!” she gasped. A quick search to the back wall turned up empty, but there was no time to contemplate his disappearance. A second horn blared and the nearby Scourge guard turned on cue to face our jail door.

  “It’s time,” it wheezed. The door lock clattered loose and the Scourge spilled in to flush us out from behind. “Move!” it commanded, shoving Trista into me and out through the open door.

  Chapter 23

  Taking a Stand

  We joined in a streaming line of some few hundred captives being led from their cells down the ramped ledges to gather around the foot of the monolithic statue of Sceleris, the serpent lord of the Shadow. Trista, not having seen it before now, looked worriedly my way. We both felt it…. There was something far more sinister to this sculpture than just a tribute to the Shadow’s feared master.

  “Prisonerss of Dolor! Captivesss of the Cruxxx!” a cold, penetrating voice hissed as a new wave of fog wound through the crowded courtyard, passing through our legs and chilling us to the bone. The winding fog collected beside the center tower and began to rise, forming a much larger Scourge shape than any we’d seen yet. There was also something very different about this form that loomed above us—it had eyes of fire, and its body seemed more defined and thick, curling around the tower like a snake. When at last the new Scourge took full form, there was little doubt what or who it was. Side by side, the stone tower and the larger fog-born serpent looked identical, down to the three horns protruding from their vicious heads. They each were the embodiment of Sceleris!

  Now fully formed, the Shadow lord began to speak again, though its mouth did not move.

  “Until now, each of you have foolishly resisssted my lordship. You have been brought here to the lowest point of Dolor, the final level, to receive the death that you deserve for your inssssolence. But,” Sceleris paused, turning his head to look over each of the prisoners, “I am a gracccious master, willing to forgive your offenssses. I offer one lassst chance to choose whom you will sssserve. Those who are brave enough to admit their errorsss and come into my serviccce will be rewarded with a chance to be set free. All you must do is agree to shed the liesss you have believed in following the Resissstance, swear your allegianccce to the Shadow and serve me, your true lord, Scelerissss.”

  “Don’t believe a word of that lying snake!” a booming voice called out from somewhere within the metal sculpture.

  The fog-born Sceleris whirled around to face the hidden challenger, spitting viscously, “Bring out the condemned!”

  A hooded prisoner fell forward from the head of the snake onto the opened metal jaw. Two Scourge guards followed him and quickly fastened his chains to loops inside the mouth, holding him upright in a bent position as he was too tall to stand.

  Some of the women among the prisoners began to weep, while men, who apparently knew what was about to come, turned their heads away.

  “Look upon the faccce of he who would decccieve you!” Sceleris hissed, prompting the guards to remove his hood. A cry went up from the crowd. When I saw the beaten face and recognized my friend, my stomach dropped an inch and I wanted to cry.

  “Who is it?” Trista whispered anxiously.

  “Sam,” I choked out, though I could barely breathe. “They’re going to kill Sam!” Everything within me wanted to run but there was nowhere to go; I had to stay and witness his torture and likely death.

  “I bring thissss prisoner here to you today as a warning to all who still cling to falssse notions that your loyalty to the Resistanccce will ever be rewarded,” Sceleris lowered his head over the crowd. “Death is the only reward that awaitssss you!”

  As Sam looked out over the crowd, I thought I spotted a tear in the corner of his eye. He had suffered so much already, why this? Why couldn’t the Author save him from this humiliation?

  “You only have one choiccce—to bow now, willingly, or bow in death! By his witnessss, this fool believed he could save othersss. I now grant him that wish. His death will mark the freedom for all who recant the failed power of the Code of Life and come to serve me.”

  Turning skyward, the phantom snake exclaimed, “Behold! Your passage to freedom awaitssss!”

  Somewhere high overhead, I heard the ratcheting mechanics of something being lowered by chain from above. Breaking through the canopy of fog overhead, a large metal pallet big enough to hold four cars lowered until it came to hover just behind the back of the giant metal head.

  I had not paid attention to it until now, but the sculpted Sceleris had another horn. Its jaw winged upwards and back from around the head to join together some length behind as a longer fourth horn. With the help of three winged Scourge, the suspension chain was lifted and its large center ring hooked onto the back horn’s upturned tip. As they let go, the weight of the pallet caused the back horn to lever down and the opened, slack jaw of the metal Sceleris to creak closer shut, tightening its grip on Sam in the process.

  “Now is the time!” Sceleris pressed. “Those ready for a new massster, step forward and claim your placcce in freedom.”

  No one breathed while the great snake bent low over the crowd, searching for any among the ranks who had lost their will to endure. Then, from out of the middle of the throng, a first taker emerged. The man, avoiding the other prisoners’ eyes, hurriedly climbed the winding flight of stairs to the awaiting pallet. As he stepped aboard, the jaws pinched tighter under the added load. Sam grunted but remained standing.

  “Wise choiccce,” Sceleris hissed soothingly to the lone defector. “Today, you will be free…free to serve me.”

  Emboldened by the first man’s example, three, then five more desperate prisoners trickled their way out of the crowd, against the pleas of their peers, and began the one-way climb to freedom. Their added weight brought the mighty captain crumpling to his knees, squeezin
g his breath out of him.

  Sceleris’ eyes flashed wickedly at the sight of the fallen Codebearer.

  “Oh! It’s horrible!” Trista cried, burying her head in my shoulder.

  It was too much for me to watch as well. I turned my head away and tried to shut out the horrific scene.

  “Aha!” I heard Sceleris revel in victory. “See how he bows to me now? So shall you! Submit now and you will live; wait and this pain of death will be yoursss. When his life expiresss, so will my offer. Do not wait!”

  “NO!” Sam’s voice yelled, echoing across the stone walls. I looked up and saw him labor to say, “Re…sist.”

  Sceleris glowered at the man’s attempt to defy him.

  With a show of great strength, Sam managed to fight his way back up to stand, and between panting breaths called out, “Decide fer yourself, who you’ll serve…but as for me, I still stand fer the truth. I stand with the Author!”

  Trista shook my shoulder, “Hunter, look!”

  “No…I can’t watch; it’s too much!” I cried, pulling away from her.

  “No! It’s him! I see him!”

  Looking up through blurry eyes, I strained to see what Trista was talking about. “Who?”

  “That prisoner…Four-one-two-six.”

  Our vanishing cell mate had made his way up the spiraling staircase and was standing beside Sam, helping him to pry the jaws open again. Together, despite the crushing weight, they lifted the scales upward. I would have expected the Scourge and Sceleris to forbid this bold act, but for some reason they seemed oblivious to his presence there. Sam stood strong, empowered and strengthened by the second man’s company. He began to shout.

  “I am not alone! The Author is here even now in my moment of trial,” Sam shouted loudly. “A new deal is made. He offers freedom—the Author grants freedom for all who come to the scales.”

  “Silence,” Sceleris seethed, “I make the rules here, I give freedom…I alone!”