The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  William, exhausted from this pitiless hour, begged, “I’m asking you, please, don’t…hurt them…any more. It’s…me you…want…isn’t it? I’ve surrendered…to…you. Isn’t that…what…you need?”

  “What I…’need’?” the Pooka placidly asked, eyeballing William as if to say, ‘you have a lot to learn about me.’ “Heavens, no, little one. I don’t need you for anything. What I want is to hurt you. I want to see you suffer. Those are my true desires.”

  “Then hurt me! Come on! Do it!” William snapped, scared, but also tired of his games.

  No bluff was this, either. He was truly willing to take the brunt of his wrath if it meant sparing them. And yet he had wit enough to see that no word of Briggun’s could be trusted, though still he had to try.

  An ireful gleam undulated across Briggun’s countenance. It seeped into a tone of a rumbling hatred which was far from his collected outset.

  The Pooka lunged forth and sneered at him, “Raise your voice at me, will you? This is how I shall see you suffer—your friends. And you would do well to learn your place, boy. No one commands me!”

  To demonstrate just how little regard he held for life of any sort, Briggun swiped his finger before him, and with a dampened clack which could only be described as a seam of cracking knuckles, a small flock of his most faithful Dearg Due hit the ground with broken necks.

  “Nor do I bargain, maggot!” the Pooka raged. “Many have tried, and all were shown to bloody graves.”

  Then, “on their knees, now!” he ordered, to those who held a captive. “Cut their ropes, and back away!”

  “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it, please!” the boy squirmed, petrified of the consequences of his foolish outburst. “I-I’ll do whatever you…want.”

  “Then indulge me, and behold.” snapped Drevol, pointing down at William’s friends, all of whom were whimpering, just as the boy himself was.

  ‘Twas like waiting for the axe to drop. And, indeed his blow was soon dealt. It just wasn’t the strike young William was expecting.

  Icrick fell first, following a dull thud. He’d been cracked over the head with something, for the fur behind his ear was blotched red. Only when he saw who was responsible for it, did William get the shock of his life. Wren was standing stood over the Grogoch, a thick branch in hand, and was bawling helplessly.

  “WREN? WHY?!” William cried, feeling so very betrayed, by not just her but his gut, too.

  “I can’t help it, William. I can’t control myself. You have to believe me!” she wept.

  “Believe you? You just hit Icrick…over the head with a branch! Why would I…believe you after that?”

  Just then, and to the relief of all, the enfeebled Grogoch picked himself up off the ground. It was a true exercise of strength, but at least he was alive.

  Briggun’s nose sniggered proudly into his palms as he watched this drizzle of disorder slowly developing into a storm of insanity.

  “You’re lucky…you didn’t…kill him!” William barked at the girl, who never stopped crying.

  “I wouldn’t speak so rashly if I were you, William!” the Elf stated.

  The lad thought he was defending the girl and was, therefore, some breed of turncoat himself. When he realised, however, just how confused Stell was by his own movements, and how awkwardly and unsteadily he was stirring, he began to think twice about his accusations.

  Then, “She does not lie,” the Elf continued, fighting to engage his arms and keep himself balanced, “whatever’s happening here, I can’t seem to control myself, either.”

  Suddenly, as a puppet wobbling upon strings, the Elf found himself approaching the Erethaoí with closed fists, whereupon he proceeded to punch him in the face; left-to-right and right-to-left. He hadn’t struck him four times, and Redmun’s face was already in a mess. He was so drained after being strangled, that he couldn’t do much to defend himself, especially under the Pooka’s watchful eye.

  All Stell could yell was, “WHY CAN’T I STOP THIS?!”

  You could imagine how horrible it was, being made to beat the life out of your friend when you could do nothing about it.

  William faced the Pooka and glared, “It’s you! It’s you who’s doing this!”

  “You don’t say.” Drevol said and laughed, slapping his hands together with glee.

  A strange twinge of discomfort skewered into the root of William’s mind. It wasn’t sore, as such, but it was enough to cast a sharp buzz up through his spine. He shook it off.

  “Stop this!” he demanded, when he noticed Khrum in a hypnotic trance, rolling up his sleeves to expose his wrists, and was on his way over to Thérn’s edge. “Khrum! Listen to me! You have to wake up. For God’s sake, wake up!”

  The leprechaun ignored him and kept on going.

  Basking in these ongoing sufferings, Drevol’s minions screeched at the stars and savagely bashed their shields, while the beast himself observed in his own reclusive and twisted way. It was just the sort of show he enjoyed. Friends hurting one another. To see Stell pummelling Redmun, and Icrick bleeding on the ground. To see Wren loathing herself after what she’d done, and The Body, who was on his way to beating Ifcus with his own blubbering Head. To top it all off, Khrum was closing in on that glinting blade, with the Pooka’s lackeys egging him on.

  Throughout this gruesome tumult of chilling cries and wicked mirth, a line of Hobgoblins stuck rigidly to their duty, should something go amiss. m’Borgo, for one, wouldn’t dare leave the boy’s side.

  “STOP THIS, I SAID!” William demanded again, leering past his brow at the Pooka and bearing the very pinnacle of detestation.

  Riveted by the action, yet careful not to get enticed by the boy’s taunts as he likely wished him to, the Pooka took heed of the idle Wren, and commanded, “Look at the girl just standing there. You there, slave.”

  “My liege?” answered a particularly filthy looking cannibal, whose tongue slobbered whenever he talked. “Vispúch of Raús at your call, oh lord of lords!”

  “See to it she is dealt with. Do whatever you see fit. Just make sure she suffers.”

  The cannibal took up his orders and went for Wren, side-hopping as they do.

  William, growing angrier, demanded of Briggun again, “Leave her the hell alone! You’ve done enough!”

  With the cannibal approaching, Wren looked for the boy, like a child lost in a crowd, and she wept, “William…please…” in the hope that he would come to rescue her.

  He tried. He tried to run to her; only to be seized by m’Borgo and flung to his knees again, with a fist to the ear for his trouble. So to say, he was going nowhere.

  “I’m sorry, Wren. For ever doubting you.” he said, eyes raw with heartache.

  Never one to quit, she wouldn’t allow herself to think that this was the end, so she called his name again, “William! This is not you talking! Please! Be strong! You can pull through this! You’ve done it before! Just be strong,” only to have it land on deaf ears.

  The boy, it seemed, had at last lost his faith. Not some of it. Not most of it. All of it. When she’d eventually succumbed to this herself—that not only had he given up, but the others had, too—she sent her faith adrift next to theirs, and waited for Vispúch to take her for himself, which he did.

  That vile creature yanked Wren’s jacket down over one shoulder, exposing her skin, all the while smirking at the boy. All her life, now was the time she wanted to be most strong. In her last moments. To show she had no fear. To grant no satisfaction whatsoever to her executioner. Yet when he put his filthy hand on her, and ran his warty tongue up along her trembling arm and over her quivering cheek, she cried.

  William, at first, couldn’t bring himself to watch. But when all he could think about was how terrified she must have been, he, whose face was now hidden by the shade of his ragged hair, rose his trembling eyes to behold her, shivering with fright, and that cannibal’s grubby hands all over her. The way he was smirking at William; for the pleasure h
e was about to bleed from her. For what he was about to put her through. For how he intended to scar her, spiritually, physically, for whatever amount of time she had left.

  Suddenly, that same sensation re-entered William’s being. It glided across his skin; raising his hair with a thousand tiny bumps. An image struck with it, before vanishing as impulsively as a blink of sheet lightning. He saw that mural again, from Ebyulán’s stained window. The angel and the newborn. Why he saw it wasn’t exactly clear, and yet it brought him something. Courage.

  A strange conviction budded inside of him, conjoined with a strong, unrivalled hunger, which could only ensue by the power of hatred, or some other such force. When it did, his eyes, which were always victim to so much trepidation, suddenly levelled; emancipating all that pent-up tension with a single, solitary out-breath.

  And then it tolled…

  Somewhere by the dust-screened gateway, beneath a canopy of broken stones, a set of jade eyes brightened and a padlock cracked and fell into the mud. A crank began to turn, making way for a rising drum as it rolled into one mighty clash of cymbals and a mighty bell’s toll. It quieted then into the mere, almost industrial tempo of hissing steam and hammers upon steel anvils, and the quietness lured itself to the subtle ascending note of a lone tuba.

  Despite his unwillingness to ever again trust a hope, Redmun emerged from his wallowing, wondering if this was really what he supposed it to be, if it was truly happening. Drevol could also recall that olden horn from ages past, swapping his conceited old grin for the terror which, by his own hand, had filled the faces of his captives of late, thus all torturing stopped as a result.

  Horrified by this so-called noise, he lamented, “No! H-How can this be?!”

  Hoping it would bring an end to it before it could start, the Pooka summoned Thérn into his claw. It went to him. But nothing changed. The note persisted, only growing stronger.

  Nobody stirred while that fantastic sound flooded the space of that great canyon. Not even William. He stayed where he was, crouching over his knee, head down. It was as if he couldn’t even hear it…

  Then visited a second tuba, over its brother. This one, more prominent than the last, and with a lifting phrase of hope, began painting a melody so enriching. It was united by the haunting bass voices of a virile chorus, whose subtleties were hardly even noticeable, but would have left a certain void had they not been there. Their timing was perfect. The bass drum rolled thereafter, yet louder this time, until it delved into the murmurs of chopping strings, along with the angelic speech of a harmonizing female chorus, which furthered the music’s power, adding much more sophistication to its assembly, making it fuller, more inspiring. Supported by the introduction of all the flowing harmonies that were left, the melody finally came into its own. The ultimate pitch was flawless.

  There was no question whatsoever now. Everybody could identify what this enchanting music was; this beguiling symphony of the brave.

  They may have upheld their duties well up till now, but the rise of the Banádh was making Briggun’s followers more restless by the note. It was a mere matter of time before they dropped arms and fled.

  William’s crew were far too scared to trust their ears, in case it wasn’t actually happening, and yet it was too damned difficult for them not to hope. For timeless was the essence of that sweet melody. Beset with faith and resolution, its course was so unspoiled, and so simple, that its notes were nigh on predictable, while still managing to preserve a likeness to nothing of which they had ever before heard, sending a bracing shiver through their bones.

  Aware of it himself now, William recalled a time from long ago, when he promised to set out on a journey, and how it brought faith and happiness to all. During his time spent upon that dangerous road, he remembered all of those precious little moments that came, hand-in-hand, with it. Moments that meant so much to him. The times they laughed. The times they cried. Times when they showed their loyalty. Times when they showed their devotion. And ever stronger did their friendship bloom. Redmun, Wren, Stell, Icrick, Crosco, Ifcus, Khrum, and Pew, they were all of them his true, true friends. Not one of them any less important than the last. And here they were, ready to sacrifice their own lives, and all that they cherished dearly, to die trying by his side.

  Mysun’s theme, glorious as it was to any noble ear, was becoming unbearable for Drevol. Squealing like pigs, his followers scurried in disarray; some even rolling about in pain. The Pooka muffled his ears and spat orders at m’Borgo to finish the child. The Hobgoblin quickly set his sword to the boy’s throat. But when he went to yank his neck back there was a harsh crack, as of a musket going off, and he was blown from his feet into a trail of smoke, back to the very far end of the chasm. William didn’t so much as bat an eyelid.

  Wren and the others stood watching while everything else was in an upheaval around them. They couldn’t take their eyes off William; to see what he was going to do next. He then woke from his trance. His eyes met with hers first, and then he looked into the spellbound faces of his other companions. These were the people who trusted him, who deposited all of their hopes into what he was to become.

  William glanced down to see the pendant glinting under his nose. It shimmered like it was the last part of the puzzle waiting to be exposed. The one remaining piece which the monk was searching for that night in the windmill.

  Just then, an all too common memory returned to him again, saying, ‘Once you truly believe in what it is you are fighting for, then it will happen.’

  Diverting from the chorus into the bridge, the Banádh entered a dramatic and inspiring change of violins and cellos, as they tried to overtake one another in a heart-lifting climb, feeding the line below to the coming of oboes, flutes, clarinets, and bassoons, all of whom joined in on the race to the pinnacle. Each note told a single story of bygone battles. Each drum delivered a thrust of excitement to the soul. It was a melody which could deliver belief even to the weakest of men. It was the symphony of a hero. One who never gave up. One who was determined never to fall.

  At long last, it finally hit our William like the rays of a blessed sunrise through the clouds of infinite night. His mother. His newfound friends. His home. It all shone so clearly that his determination boiled all the hotter, as he squeezed the dirt tightly in his fists. It wasn’t about rescuing Lythiann’s races or his own people, or even about bravery. It was something else. And what could be worth fighting for more than friendship; than kindness; than allegiance? What could be worth living for, worth dying for, more than the world’s most unified desire, love itself?

  After reaching the bridge’s peak, to be faced with a rushing downward slope on the far side, into a ramp of true glory, all woodwind, brass, drum, and string alike, prepared themselves for their final flying leap into the magnificent chorus of that most enchanted piece.

  “We know you can do this, lad!” Redmun so proudly rooted, from the top of his lungs to the very bottom of his heart. “Now stand up and finish this!”

  By that tribal beating of andante, William, whose face was still dipped in shade, dislodged Thérn from Briggun’s frozen hand, summoning it to where it truly belonged, and it befriended his long-lost touch with an electric rush. Once it had found its rightful owner, an inexplicable breeze jetted upwards from beneath, blowing back his hair and freeing his tails of their ties. And once it subsided, he rose to his feet, the one warrior who all remembered. Pride stole their hearts as they watched this Wrythunn rising up to meet his day. After dreaming about it for so long, after wondering what it would be like, it was finally happening.

  Viewing the world through renewed senses, William was no longer struggling to see past the distortions of anger or fear. Rather, he was observing through a polished pane of confidence. No, fearlessness. He glared at Drevol so forebodingly that it put the shudders through him just as the Pooka himself had done with William mere moments ago. He removed Wren’s scarf from around his waist and wrapped it around his nose and mouth, for the s
tench of impending death was something this hero hated.

  Masked and ready, William’s eyes beamed blue, and just for that brief moment, just for those initial words, he uttered in a voice so strong that it was as if it came from a man much older than he, “This ends now, Briggun!”

  “YOU!” Drevol cried, gullet quivering, as he backed away.

  As this long-awaited confrontation took place, Icrick, who had a rag pressed to his cut, noticed how brightly the Erethaoí’s vambrace was shining. All of its designs and markings were somehow seeping with the most elegant of white lights.

  Tapping him on the arm, he urged, “Redmun! Look! Your bracelet thingamabob!”

  Staggered that this miracle should occur at the very same second William happened to receive the Wrythus, the man uttered to himself, in his roughened voice, “They have come!”

  No longer able to contain themselves, a number of bedazzling rays suddenly leapt from his vambrace, in unison to the Banádh’s lifting key as it soared into its final chorus, bellowing thrice as loudly as before.

  From out of the smouldering rubble of the eastern passage there came a rumble, and an orchestra of voices snowed down like one worldly congregation, all singing the forgotten librettos of the ageless Banádh:

  ‘Ooba-ra ni-ígh fui-sanná, uí dra-obaís cun tsuí. Hlu-sumaí trín thraíl-baran, dort mar-gorbá ur zhaoír. Bri-já, ur-at, gorfín, kwán, ur bán ismó ooba-ra aoith-insmará.’

  A choir of Dwelvin-Mites marched in, with some Trenchins burrowing topside behind them. These were the ones who had never stopped believing. A militia of thousands. A legion of companions. Men, women, children alike. Some were sickly, but able, whereas all were gathered together under the united banners of selflessness and harmony. They sang for the freedom of their people. For their right to be. For friendship, and for what was just.

  Bless them, those kindly folk; all armoured in their saucepans and washboards, pots, pans, and trays. This was all the protection they could scavenge in the Grollo. And yet, some managed to forage a few proper things too, such as daggers, and some old spears. Dull, but they worked. You must understand that Dwelvin-Mites were not soldiers, but they had passion in their beliefs. A worthy virtue to fend against even the most efficiently trained Hobgoblin.