A Poisoned Land (Book 1: Faith, Lies and Blue Eyes)

by Craig P Roberts

  “I know, it’s okay.” Baskie tried to sound comforting but he wasn’t used to doing this sort of thing.

  “How is it okay? It’s going to be like this until they kill us.” Mior wriggled awkwardly in his kneeling position.

  “You need to come with me now. I’m going back to my ship and you can come with me. We made it to the pod without them seeing us. We can do the same on the way back.”

  “We can’t leave. These things…” Mior grasped the collar around his neck. “They torture us with them. Riler tried to run and all we saw was him reach up to his neck and then his body went limp and he never woke up.”

  “Where’s Saul? I need to find him.”

  “He ran to the caves with Docháran the day they arrived. The two of them said they were going to come back for us all.”

  “I promise I’ll find them and then we’ll come back for all of you. I don’t know when it’ll be, but when I gather enough of my people, we’ll come back for you.” Baskie stared at Mior and put a hand on his shoulder. He scrambled out of the room and ran to the door of the pod. Listening for any barking, he took a deep breath and snuck outside in a crouch. As he looked towards the big gray house, he saw Owin getting dragged along the grass. Baskie wanted to call to his friend. He was torn in two. Part of him wished to risk everything and try to tear Owin from their grasps and somehow make it back to the boat. I’ll come back for you. I promise, he willed Owin to hear. A lump throbbed in his throat.

  Baskie cast his eyes back towards the beach. Only grass lay between him and the relative safety of the sand. He took off. Sprinting for the edge of the grass field, he could hear shouting ahead coming from the beach. Not the deep barks of the pale men—these were the thuggish-slurs of young mortals. He didn’t bother slowing as he got to the ridge, he just launched himself off and landed in the soft sand. Baskie whirled to face the shouting in a ready crouch. Clouds of dust surrounded three figures. He made out Romarus and, from the insect-like style, he could tell that Docháran was one of his attackers. Romarus’s fists and legs swung around in accurate strikes. One contacted the third figure and knocked him back towards Baskie. It was Saul.

  “What the fuck are you doing? He’s with me! Stop!” Baskie shouted, running towards the storm of sand, fists and feet. Eyes locked onto him. “Docháran, stop!”

  Saul ran over to Baskie, dusting himself off as Romarus backed away from Docháran, who was still in his lantar stance.

  “Where the fuck have you been? And where’s Owin?” Saul stabbed a finger at Baskie’s chest with every question.

  Baskie dragged him down so that they sat with their backs to the ridge. Romarus and Docháran followed suit. “Lower your voice, unless you want them to hear!”

  Saul whispered, “Fine, but who the fuck is this?” He pointed at Romarus. “We saw him sneaking out of one of the pods and running to the beach. When we asked him who he was, he grabbed me, said I was his brother and tried to drag me to that boat.” Saul nodded to their skiff, still beached on the sand.

  “You are my brother!” Romarus hissed loudly.

  Saul screwed his face up. “You’re not one of the brothers. I’ve never seen you before. Stop talking shit.”

  “His eyes are different colors,” Romarus mumbled to himself. “This is him.” He stared at Saul. “Costalus,” he whispered, expecting Saul to remember his few years as a baby in the Ten Kingdoms, just by hearing his original name.

  “Who the fuck is Costalus?” Docháran shouted.

  Baskie quickly threw a hand over Docháran’s mouth. His arm was batted away with a look of disgust. “We’ll explain later,” Baskie told him, “but right now, we need to get to that boat and get the fuck off this island.”

  “We can’t leave them all here,” Saul said unconvincingly, straining to look over the ridge.

  Baskie shook his head. “There’s no chance of being able to help them alone. We’ll come back for them all with more strength.” Baskie covered his mouth and pulled at the skin on his face, frantically thinking.

  Docháran was suddenly on Baskie’s side: “He’s fucking right. We need to go.”

  Go to find help, or go to save yourself? “We have to warn the watch posts. We’ll go to Redhorn, they’ll get the word out. Then we should sail to Narscape.” Kiko will know what to do! Baskie always thought of the Blind-Seer if he was ever unsure of the correct course of action.

  A shadow fell on them, blocking the sun. It was caused by two of the huge men landing in the sand from the ridge above. They barked something in their strange tongue and one beat his chest, making a ripping motion with veins popping in his neck. Both huge figures bared their teeth. For the first time, their black eyes locked onto Baskie’s face; the shinnying dark orbs, although wide and large, seemed to target him with pinpoint accuracy. Their high cheekbones cast unnatural shadows on their flawless skin.

  Romarus dove, tackling one around the waist and knocking the massive pale body back into the sand. Saul tried to copy but was driven into the ground. His head jolted backwards before his face piled into the sand. The hairless ogre stood on Saul’s back and loomed over Baskie. Swinging a foot, he kicked the huge man in the balls, causing the black-eyed beast to grimace. The raging ogre clubbed him on the side of the head with a thick arm. He scrambled out into more open ground on the sandy beach.

  Saul began to stir. Romarus was locked in combat with the other big bastard. Even though he was a third of his size, Romarus seemed to be getting the better of the now bloody-nosed, huge, pale man.

  Baskie looked out to the water and saw the other small skiff approaching. Brick’s shaggy blond head frantically worked backwards and forwards, rowing to shore. Loyal…but stupid!

  When Baskie turned back to the beach, an attacker was approaching. Baskie threw a punch to the gut, which was blocked by a massive forearm. His kick made contact with a chunky lower leg but just slid off. The man’s hand grasped him around the neck and he felt his eyes bulging. He came face to face with the demonic, almost feminine face. Below, two legs interlocked from behind the giant fiend and threw it sideways into the sand. Air filled Baskie’s lungs as he was freed. Docháran jumped up from his sliding leg-lock and landed with his elbow driving into the pale head of the man lying on the ground. His elbow lifted again and smashed into the ogre’s skull. Over and over again with gritted teeth, Docháran drove his elbow, reddening more with each pummeling drive.

  Romarus rode the shoulders of his opponent. His legs wrapped around the man’s face. Both his thumbs gouged at the beast’s eyes. The large pale body staggered blind from side to side. Romarus jumped off, landing in a crouch. He spun and kicked a huge leg at the side of the knee, which bent in the wrong direction with a crunch. Baskie winced as he watched the man’s lower leg hang awkwardly. The ogre let out a high-pitched wail, like a hound being kicked. Romarus left the man screaming with one leg kneeling normally and the other hanging awkwardly to the side.

  “Costalus,” the boy king shouted, running to Saul, who was crawling towards the water on his belly, dazed. As he reached his brother, a roar came from the ridge. Three large men stood looking down at Saul, Baskie, Romarus and Docháran. One of them held what looked like a large metal log that he loaded onto his broad shoulders.

  The injured beast on the beach screamed, pointing at Romarus. The man with the huge metal log aimed it at the king as if it were some kind of arrow.

  BOOM! A blue flame erupted from it and hurtled towards the boy king, who managed to pull Saul and himself out of the way of the explosion that tossed sand twenty footfalls into the air.

  “Get to the boat!” Baskie shouted. They ran. Brick was nearing the shore. “Brick, turn back!”

  Docháran and Baskie reached the skiff first and pushed it off the sand so it was ready to go as soon as Romarus and Saul made it. The king supported his brother with an arm over his shoulder, staggering towards them. Brick’s boat was now next to theirs. He still wore the heavy sack full of Grietum’s black dust on his back.
Even now, in this situation, you keep your promise to Romarus to look after it, Baskie thought, as he remembered flashes of Brick staying one step ahead of the Skip’s attempts to dump the substance on their journey to the island.

  “Brick, fucking turn back!” Baskie shouted, as the halfwit’s boat drifted past theirs onto the sand. Brick hopped into the water and waded through the shallows. The heavy pack made him stagger backwards as he started running on the sand.

  Baskie cursed, scrambling out of the boat, running towards Romarus and, the near unconscious, Saul. He saw the man aim the weapon on his shoulder again. Baskie began to weave like he was dodging arrows. He shouted to Romarus, “Move from side to side, he’s firing again—”

  BOOM! Another ball of blue flame came hurtling towards them, landing only two footfalls from Romarus and Saul. The one with the weapon jumped down onto the sand and started to work on the huge piece of metal. He must be loading another flame, Baskie thought, thinking of it like a bow and arrow.

  Brick scrambled past Saul and Romarus and dropped the sack from his back. It landed with a dull thud in the sand.

  As Baskie reached the two brothers, he slung Saul’s free arm over his shoulder and the three of them dredged towards the skiff from where Docháran sat staring at them. When they reached the boat, the selfish cunt stretched himself to stepping in the water to help load Saul. Baskie turned back to see where Brick was, but all he saw was the ogre aiming the massive metal weapon at their small boat. Even from this far away, he could see right down the shaft. The blue flame built inside its depths. I don’t want to die yet.

  He heard a bark from the ridge above and then the boom of the weapon, but before the blue fireball left the metal shaft, the huge man was falling to the ground. Brick was wrapped around his waist. The fireball skipped along the sand, firing up a furious path of dust that stopped halfway to the water with a larger puff of dust. Brick hopelessly clawed at the man’s face with his puffy eyes and mouth screwed up. The huge beast brushed him off and went to reload the weapon.

  “Start rowing,” Baskie strained.

  Docháran didn’t hesitate. He took an oar in each hand and began to move the boat out to sea towards Swift Locutus.

  Romarus looked back to the beach. “Brick!” he shouted with a broken voice. He grabbed Docháran by the neck. “What the fuck are you doing?” The skiff rocked as Romarus scrambled around. “We can’t leave him!”

  Baskie stared at the shrinking scene on the beach. “We can’t do anything for him,” he said blankly. Only a fuckwit enters a fight he knows he can’t win.

  “No!” Romarus pushed Baskie away from the end of the boat and leaned over the edge, ready to dive in. Baskie grabbed him and pulled him back. The king knelt, watching as a throng of huge men jumped down and surrounded his half-witted loyal aide. The boy king slumped down, his face screwing up as his eyes leaked and lips quivered. “Thank you,” he whispered to his faithful friend who could no longer hear him as they floated away.

  Baskie’s thoughts turned to Owin. His stomach twisted as he remembered the moment his fuckwit friend practically handed himself over. You entered a fight you could not possibly win and now you’re a prisoner. I just hope you’re doing something and not just on your knees begging the Mother for help. With a quivering chin and aching throat, Baskie said a silent farewell to his companion.

  When all is lost, turn to my light.

  Scroll 9:5 of the Mother

  Owin

  Strong Owin

  The strong hand grasped the back of his neck. Being dragged through the grass felt surprisingly relaxing. Owin was beyond the point of fear and the strength of the Mother coursed through him. He was invincible.

  “Put me down, you sack of shit!” His hands slapped and punched at the chunky smooth legs.

  The men just laughed.

  “Where’s the Mister? Take me to the Mister, you fuck!” Owin shouted, with more punching and slapping.

  “Meestah, Meestah,” they mocked and laughed again.

  Owin craned his neck as much as he could. The brute’s massive white chest was covered in ink in the shape of scales. They coated his arms too. The man’s hairless face stared straight ahead at the House of the Mother where they were heading. In no way was his face grotesque: clear perfect skin, glowed in the late afternoon sun. But something about the shape of the narrowing jaw and ridged cheekbones made Owin’s stomach knot with terror.

  There must have been a hundred of them sitting in groups around twelve campfires—chanting, fighting, laughing, and spilling and gulping drinks from oversized tankards. The laughs made Owin’s spine crawl. They were nearing the standing stones that encircled the Mother’s holy-house.

  Protect me, Mother, he prayed before he made his move. He grabbed and punched at the brute’s stomach. “Put me down, you fuck!” Before he could shout anymore, he ended up with a face full of grass and looked up to see the two men walking away from him…laughing again. Just because they weren’t dragging him anymore, didn’t mean he could escape. He had nothing to lose, his home was ruined but the Mother still protected him. “Why the fuck are you laughing at me?! Take me to the Mister,” he shouted, as he ran and pushed the dragging one in the back of a massive leg. An ink-covered arm swung and hit Owin in the chest, driving him backwards onto his arse. Looking straight up, the sun was blinding until the two massive figures towered over him, blocking the light. Lying in the grass, Owin swung his foot, hitting a big white leg. It was like kicking a tree. Then, there was that laugh again.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  Owin could feel tears coming but they were halted when he finally understood a word.

  “Strong,” the man said, rolling the ‘r’ and pointing at Owin’s chest. “Strong!” he grunted, louder this time, followed by that irritating laugh.

  Maybe one of their words just sounded like strong, or it could have actually been the word. Do you think I’m brave?

  When he looked around at the throng of huge thugs sitting around the tall columns of rock outside the House of the Mother, he saw fighting, laughing, more fights, one head-butted another, then helped him up and laughed and drank more, laughed, then more fighting.

  The sun glared again as the two walked towards the House of the Mother and went inside. Owin ran to catch up with them. When he got inside, he could have cried. Everything had been turned over and the hangings of the goddesses were all ripped down, except one. There was food lying everywhere and all the white, scaly-inked, bald bastards sprawled on the floor and benches.

  Owin climbed onto the only table that remained the correct way up. “Don’t walk away from me, you fucks!” he yelled.

  All the unnatural sharp faces in the room locked onto him. Owin felt the color drain from his face. The laughing started. The one who had dragged him most of the way began shouting at the others in words that Owin didn’t understand. Walking towards the table, kicking one of the hairless things to get past, he picked up Owin under the armpits and growled, “Strong! Strong!”

  The Mother’s strength took him and he did the only thing that felt right. Reaching out, while still being held high, he grabbed the thing’s chin and pulled himself close. The room erupted in cheers and laugher, then silence. His eyes are…colorless! Owin had never seen anything like this before. The shiny black pools of nothing blinked. He saw his own face reflected in the wet curved surface. He focused his thoughts. “The Mister…Where?” Owin tried to sound as deep and angry as possible. “Where is the Mister?”

  “Strong,” the beast repeated and put Owin down on the floor.

  They don’t understand! How the fuck can I make them understand? Owin pointed at himself and said, “Brother.”

  He got a blank stare in return.

  “Brother…eh…strong Brother.”

  Bald-thing raised his chin and pointed at Owin, saying, “Strong Broder.”

  “Yes!” He felt happy for a split-second then remembered the devastation around him. But at least he was getting somew
here.

  “Strong Caatamoor.” The beast pointed at the inked scales on his massive chest.

  Is his name Caatamoor or are all these fucks the Caatamoor? “Caatamoor?” Owin asked, and waved his hand towards the brutes in the room.

  “Sah!” The man held up a scaly-patterned arm and made a fist. The others chanted back.

  “Brothers,” Owin said, pointing to where he thought the pods were from where he stood and then pointed at himself and said, “Owin.”

  “Machon,” said Machon, holding his hand to his inked chest. He started to turn away, then suddenly whirled back around and punched Owin hard in the stomach.

  All air was knocked out of him and he collapsed to the ground. Don’t cry, he told himself, as he felt the tears coming; one dripped down his face.

  Machon laughed and picked him up with one arm. “Owin och niena!” The laughs from all over the room were clearly mocking him and he was no longer Strong Owin.

  On his hands and knees, gasping for air, Owin saw Machon walk behind him and heard something hit the floor. The others cheered. A heavy hand pushed on his back and he felt his trousers being pulled down. Fuck no! His heart was racing and he tried to think of any way of getting out of this which wouldn’t involve a fight that he would most definitely lose. Don’t beg, that’s what he wants, be strong. Being strong was the only thing that saved him before and allowed him to speak.

  He looked in front of him and saw one of the hangings of the goddesses ripped on the floor. I could take them to the visions. It was the only thing he thought would stop Machon doing what he was about to do. He grabbed the hanging and held it up so Machon could see it. “This! I can bring you to her!”

  “Niena?” Machon pointed at the hanging.

  “Niena.” Owin pointed too. Niena means goddess?

  Owin was dragged to where the Mister used to go to pray and where he observed him do the act, over a moon-turn ago. They’ve understood, they’re taking me to see him, he thought, feeling his spirits lift. As the door creaked open, he was pushed inside by Machon. What he saw was like another punch to the stomach. The Mister wasn’t in his chair—in his place was another of the hairless thugs. The Caatamoor sat facing the door in the Mister’s chair with almost his entire body covered in inked scales. His earlobes were stretched and hung down onto his shoulders. Black, soulless eyes locked on Owin.