Try as he may, our devastated young William was tiring. Swiftly he grew weak. That’s not to say that he was about to surrender. Most certainly not. Not while there was air in his lungs.
Revealing such compassion, he tried to overcome the strain, and forcing his wilted body against the gateway, he whined, “PULL! JUST…HEAVE! PLEASE! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME WITH THIS. WE NEED TO WORK TOGETHER. I CAN’T OPEN THIS GATE BY MYSELF.”
Just then, the heat prevailed; scorching the steel so fiercely that William was forced to pull his hands away. Regarding his reddened flesh with sorrow welling in his eyes, he so staggered backwards before collapsing to his knees.
He couldn’t believe it… He couldn’t even talk… Or truly cry… It had all happened so unexpectedly.
Within this sad and desperate moment, where he felt he’d lost his friends forever, he heard one voice calling out to him, a final time. It simply spoke to him. Just words. And it was so odd a thing, how it affected him.
“If you can hear me, William, know this. You’re the only one who matters now.” said they, preaching not in fear, but with purpose. “You’re the only one who ever mattered. Whatever happens to us now is meant to be. It’s God’s will. However, this is not your fate. Do you hear me? Your journey does not end here. Now go! Save your mother. Find Drevol and fulfil your destiny. And never forget…we believe in you, William. And although we can’t be by your side anymore, our trust in you will always be in our hearts…from now till the end of time. Past the very reaches of heaven and thereafter.”
Those words that so movingly shaped our hero’s heart, hailed from a source that he never would have expected likely.
From where he knelt with his head slumped in despair, William, of a sudden, lifted a bold stare to the fervency of Wren’s voice. Honouring the oath which he’d since made with himself, he set aside his grudges and, for this one glorious moment, he felt strong inside. For that one fleeting instant, he felt like he could chew up stone. He felt courageous. Like mirrors reflecting the blazing horizon, his eyes faded back to blue from a mysterious gleaming crimson. Then he stood tall and true; out-staring those now pitiful gates before him.
He felt just as he did that eve when he was battling Redmun. One…more…try! he thought. His blood raced through his veins. His chest gasped heavily. The adrenaline gushed through his entire body like an avalanche. Stepping up to the gates, a power flew along his arms and, in crying out, he forced his hands against that roasting steel in one last attempt to aid his friends. From his blistering palms smoke may have risen, but William’s focus was leagues from the petty influences of pain. His cry, which was now of beastlike volumes, amplified louder and more stridently, so that a high-pitched undertone was sifting through it and resonating throughout those barren canyons around, and the thunder spoke back with equal rage. Such a deafening crack that even the Glogs trembled at the skies. Then happened the most remarkable thing. Like some small miracle, some divine act, the enormous plate of unyielding steel on William’s side—wheels, chains and all—buckled like mere tin under his touch. Warping out of shape, with one powerful dent after another, this knock-on effect caused a rattle so damaging that it exposed a gap in between the doors, about three feet up, on the other side. It was a gap just big enough for someone of a regular build to squeeze themselves through at a push.
When it was over, William stumbled to the deck, breathlessly and exhausted. Again, he was himself, emptied of this strange, alien force that so assisted him. Amazing as this was, William, who was astonished by the defeated gateway before him, remained utterly clueless as to how it all happened. Then he became very conscious as to whether the Glogs had heard it happening. They must have. Then again, what with all of the thunder, volcanoes, and the dying screams of his friends, and the fact that most of the damage was on his side, his worries settled. Besides, the others were still in peril, so he had no real time to worry about it.
William put his eye to the gap, and glimpsed his allies on the other side, laying awkwardly on the ground, unconscious from of the oily smoke that enshrouded them. The Glogs were congregating round them, looking upon their soon-to-be captives with those ungodly smiles, as if already savouring in some premature triumph. Afraid of being seen, William ducked down. Whatever was he to do?
He knew that his comrades needed rescuing, but he felt helpless. Outmatched. Not just by one Glog this time, but by a gang…and a mass of smelted magma to boot. But that fiery lake was not flowing anymore, which was something at least. Instead it had hemmed his companions in tightly together, waiting; assuming a likeness to that of a searing barricade which was ready to run again should any one of them attempt to flee. Our William kept spying in, in the hope of a decent opportunity presenting itself to him. Then, before long, his opening came.
Entering into a discussion about what way they should go about bringing their prisoners back to Drevol—whether they should kill them first, or just knock them out, or just toast them there and then and not take them back at all—the Glogs grew somewhat distracted from all else. William took this as his chance, poked his head through the gap, and tried waking his friends.
“Pssst!” he whispered, stretching out to shake Stell’s boot, who was the closest, sprawled alongside Pew. “Pssst! Wake up, Stell! Wake up!”
Having no luck with him, he tried the Poppum.
“Pew!” he muttered, keeping a close eye on the Glogs. “Can you hear me? Wake up! Wake up!”
Outside of groaning and muttering, neither Pew nor the Elf roused. The only thing William did was make those unsightly brutes hush-up and jerk their heads in his direction. But, as spry as a hare, he slid into cover before they could spot him.
“What was tha’?” leered one of the stockier creatures, snorting upwind. “Tha’ noise just now. Anyone else here it? ‘Twas was like someone movin’ ‘round! Whisp’rin’.”
“Probably just the gatekeeper potterin’ about on the other side.” answered another of the fatter ones. “Take no notice! Anyways, we best get on with our duties. We’re wastin’ time here, dawdlin’, and I want to get back home for some dinner. I’m famished!”
They all returned to discussing their homeward route. All bar one.
On the fat Glog’s remark about the gatekeeper, one of the skinnier, slier and more menacing of the creatures noticed how the gates were ever so slightly askew. Need I say, the fact that the whole entrance had pretty much been mangled on the other side had completely eluded him, along with his brothers, at that point in time. They never really felt it necessary to analyse it, you see. Why would they? I mean, how often do you take the time to stand outside your own front door and study every little scratch and blemish? Not very often, I’d say. Still, that delicate opening was enough to heighten this one Glog’s suspicions. With his interests taking root, he inched closer for a look, leaving his brothers to their debate.
William apprehended his approach, and stooped as low as he could. He was sure if he’d been seen or not. He wanted to bolt, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave his friends. So by a sort of bizarre negligence, he arched his neck and peeked out again, just barely, to make sure. It turns out he hadn’t been seen. Not yet anyway. But the Glog kept coming.
Alongside the uncontrollable, unbearable seizures of horror which crawled up along his now-pimply flesh, William watched the creature who was creeping all the closer. He was sidestepping. Advancing warily with an unblinking fix. Too afraid to look away, young William kept a wide eye on him, and every last vein in his body seemed to solidify into an excruciating coldness by each movement of this awful beast. The terror had numbed him so deeply that he had to keep looking, even in spite of the fact that he was unable to tell if the beast was now analysing the gap itself or, in truth, him, and was thereby refusing to alarm the others until he could confirm it.
“Where you off to, Mogh?” the tallest Glog then asked, to William’s respite. “I’ve had just about enough o’ you ‘n’ your dilly-dallyin’. Now get your scrawny behind back
here ‘n’ help us with these pris’ners. Oi! Nodymogh!”
But the one whom they called Nodymogh ignored him and kept on the scent.
William was so petrified that he sank into hiding again, covering his mouth to dampen any shaking breaths. But before he could think twice about devising any style of plan, either valiant or rash, Nodymogh had his bright-green eyeball, full and gleaming, pressed against the beaten gap, and it flared out when he saw what he saw.
William curled himself up into a foetal ball, and couldn’t help but whimper. He had definitely been seen now. He just had to have been. Why else would the Glog’s fix glare the way it did? His bony, rock-like arm then reached in at William…bypassing his anxious stare…only to withdraw again, with one of those great keys which William himself had severed from the gatekeeper’s fallen corpse. He hadn’t seen him after all.
“What?” gasped Nodymogh, displaying the plump limb to that same Glog from before. “Feast your eyes on this, our Muxzer! Someone’s gone ‘n’ done in our key-man, then unlocked the gate.”
“WHAT?!” barked Muxzer, barging through the crowd and, addressing his men, he ordered, “Who did this? This…this act o’ negligence. Did anyone see? Speak up! Who dares show such impudence to our lord that they blunder their duties? Who?!”
Clearly Muxzer was second in command, next to Glorgan. Thus, advocating his position, he confronted each and every Glog in his unit—all of whom stood to like true soldiers—and demanded some answers. But Nodymogh didn’t react the same as the others, and it was he whom Muxzer was most suspicious of, for he was the least trustworthy of all; incessantly slacking off and shirking his duties. Nodymogh felt he could get away with this manner of conduct though, and here’s why.
His real name was plainly ‘Mogh,’ and the ‘Nody’—or sometimes spelt ‘Noddy’—was incorporated in secret by his peers, to suggest that he was of a foolhardy sort. But he was a fierce Glog, too. Very feared by his own, and few would ever get away with branding him such handles before Mogh would snap and let fly. That’s why, most of the time, they were very careful about how and when they said it (mostly behind his back).
Whereas, in consequence of his lofty rank, Muxzer felt he had the right to address him so, whenever it suited him.
“Who did this?” he demanded, gripping Nodymogh’s throat and ramming him back against a rock. “Answer me! Who got past our defence, murdered our key-man, then left this mess for us to clean up? Whose turn was it on post, Nodymogh? Yours again? An’ why weren’t you at your post…Nodymogh? These stations have to be manned at all times. It’s Glorgan’s orders. We’re not to take any chances, he said…’member? These canyons are our holy land, ‘n’ hallowed ground always needs protection. As much protection as possible, lest these would-be heroes go ‘n’ get ahead o’ themselves. Now, own up to your mistake ‘n’ take your scoldin’!”
Mogh, angered past all reasonable doubt, grimaced so forebodingly at his accuser that it uttered infinitely more than any spoken threat.
“Watch what you say to me…sire!” He grinned in a dark and demeaning manner. “Other than Glorgan… ‘n’ those rats…nobody else was here! An’ Glorgan will see to the boy, I’m sure. He’s likely toying with him right now. Other than that…my Quartermaster…nobody has slipped past my watch. Now, kindly remove your hand before I do something you’ll regret.”
No elaboration was needed, for, his status excluded, Muxzer was just as apprehensive as any other of Mogh’s temper, though he always tried to hide it for rank’s sake. And scarcely can a title protect against the untamed forces of unpredictability. Through a fusion of surprise, resentment, and the will to maintain his grandeur, he even leered back at Mogh with equal disdain. But his underlying discomfort in this ‘insubordinate’s’ presence restrained him from barking anything back. His wits were overthrown. He knew it, and Mogh knew it. Suddenly, the tension between them was broken.
“Ahem…s-s-sire,” a voice quivered.
There, trembling from speaking out of turn, stood the smallest Glog of all, Bimbul. He was gesturing at the top of gateway and how it had been scuffed.
“Investigate!” roared Muxzer; in one way to find out what was going on, and in another, to display to Mogh just how obedient his underlings were. However, Mogh knew the real truth, and so just smiled back at him with an amused stare.
All Glogs took to the walls to further inspect the damage, only to discern just how beaten those gates actually were. Speechlessness befell them at how they’d managed to miss this. Then, when Bimbul burrowed through for a proper look to discover how the mechanics on the other side had been popped from their casings like a cheap watch, he demanded that they all come and see. Even Muxzer went.
Whilst they carried on investigating, our young William was, unbeknownst to them, hiding in behind some rocks, and was preparing himself to act.
When done inspecting the mess in the other side, Muxzer returned to his prisoners and commented, in terrible doubt, “What did this? Who did this?”
Mogh shoved by his complainant, and preaching like he knew only too well the reasons behind all this, he orated, “Not only were these gates wrought from the indestructible steel of the Crescént mines, the very steel of our enemy’s eternal blade, but it was also protected under the six spells of Cardhár, which you all know the power of. Never, in all its years, has its shielding been breached. Not by human nor beast; legion nor weapon.”
To the broken mass of twisted metal, he then muttered, “No. Apart from our master, only one other has the power to cause somethin’ like this.”
Just then, out sprung our little William. But to suggest that he had any kind of worthy plan in mind would be quite untrue, unfortunately. He just knew he had to do something to help his friends. Anything.
Virtually throttling the grip of his weapon with beading and unsteady hands, he warned, “Back away from my friends! Back away right now, unless you want to get a bloody good thrashing. You hear me?!”
What a brave and thoughtless act; granted, William was harrowingly aware of how out of his depth he was. And it was written all over his face.
First, such as anyone would do when caught off guard, the Glogs jumped. Yet they weren’t alarmed for long before they were sniggering away to themselves at the lad’s out-and-out idiocy. For who was he to oppose so many of them.
“Well, well,” Muxzer jeered, “if it isn’t their little saviour. An’ I emphasize the word ‘little’. What a scrawny child you are. Here to accede to Mysun’s magic, are you? My, my. How…ahem…terrifying. Here to inherit the magic of the one who…’ran away’? The strength of a coward, no less! Of a deserter. Does that sound terribly threatenin’ to you, boy? Coz, to me, it sounds kind o’…hmmm…comical, really.”
Muxzer’s comrades agreed, and were chuckling and pointing at this frail child who stood before them.
Then the Glog continued, “That supposed sorcerer’s tricks were little more than smoke ‘n’ mirrors, in comparison to our Master Briggun, boy! An’ the sooner you realise that, the better.”
William, who was disinclined to prove them right, sneered, “I was strong enough to beat your leader, Glorgan, wasn’t I! Stabbed him straight through the jaw, I did. Dead! Gone! What do you make o’ that, ha?”
The Glogs did not respond to this. They were, I suppose, fairly bewildered to get such tidings, whilst equally unsure of whether they could trust the boy’s word or not.
And so, Muxzer called his bluff, by saying, “If what you say is true, then I believe that puts me in command. So I suppose I should be grateful to you for my promotion. Much obliged.”
Mogh delivered a dirty, hateful glance at his new self-proclaimed leader. He felt that he had more of a right to resume command than him. Armies only follow strength, of which Muxzer had none in comparison to him. But he offered no protest. Not yet.
“I shall bring you to Drevol myself then,” Muxzer continued. “Come with us now…coward’s heir—beneficiary to the one who fled.”
Muxzer then replied, with such cruel pity, “Naivety is never a healthy quality in oneself, lad. You know that, don’t you? It simply makes the fool appear all the more foolish. Why don’t you just give up? Make it easy on yourself. You can’t win. Give in to the truth. Give in ‘n’ face your inevitable destiny—the long ‘n’ lonesome road to eternal rest.”
Indeed, those words fazed young William, as they would anyone, but he fought to discount them.
“Move away from my friends, I said.” he threatened, feeling the dim prickle of doubt as it tried provoking him, just as it used to before. “Move away or…I-I-I…”
“Yesss?” Mogh hissed, taking things into his own hands and advancing out from the rest.
“…Or I won’t be responsible for my a-a-actions! That’s what!” the boy shouted.
With that, Thérn suddenly hacked itself straight into the Glog’s forearm like a log of wood.
This may not have been quite so humorous for Mogh, but the other Glogs seemed to get a good laugh out of it. They weren’t long quieting down, however, when he caught them at it. Fearful of making eye contact, they inched away. Mogh then returned to the boy, who was now in terrible distress, with his precious weapon lodged in the arm of his foe.
“Well now…” Mogh grinned, admiring the sword in his arm. “…would you look at what I’ve got!”
“Give it back!” William demanded, knowing well the Glog would do no such thing.
The Other of One: Book Two Page 42