Wavebreaker

by A. J. Norfield

“No, mother, wai—AAAAH!”

  Corza shot upright, his shirt drenched in cold sweat. He grabbed the throbbing scar between his legs. The walls of his room spun. He threw back his blanket and rushed outside onto the balcony. He breathed in deeply. The fresh air helped, until he noticed his missing finger. The contents of his stomach rushed up through his throat and disappeared over the edge of the railing. Below him, the city sounds of Tal’Kabur clanged toward the sunrise, as if summoning a god. He rested his head on the balustrade for a moment and spat on the ground.

  “Fucking whore,” he hissed through his teeth.

  But he already felt an icy calmness flow over him. His anger seeped away, letting the fear remain, even if he wished it not to. His fists clenched and hit the stone. Pain shot through his severed finger, which was still healing. He looked at it in disgust.

  “Never again, Corza. Remember?” he said to himself. “You said never again. You go to the top, where none will dare touch you—ever.”

  He pushed himself away from the balustrade and went back inside. Opening a trunk in the corner, he filled the large wooden table along the wall with flasks and bottles. A metal ring stand was set over a stone bowl, into which Corza put a small porous stone. He opened one of the flasks and poured its liquid into the bowl. The strong scent of alcohol filled the room.

  He looked at his hands; the trembling had stopped. He clenched his fist again. It felt very wrong to be so calm when so much was out of order with the world. He looked at the table; everything was ready. Now he only had to get the cream from the cellars.

  With large strides, he exited his room and headed for the stairs. He was pleased to see his guards were alert and awake. It seemed the execution of those fools who let the twins in the other day provided the desired motivational effect. Descending the stairs, sounds of those waking up within the castle greeted him at every level. He passed the kitchen, getting brief surprised looks from the kitchen staff, but they knew better than to ask the high general about his business.

  Eagerly, Corza arrived at his destination. In the far corner of a tiny dead-end corridor, he opened a door. Stepping inside, the sour smell of urine assaulted his nose. In the corner, a large cauldron hung above a fire, the yellow liquid inside it boiling and foaming. The smell was enough to make Corza gag, but it was what he needed, so he bore with it.

  “Sir, I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” said the man who stood stirring the gallons of urine. Strangely enough, the man did not seem bothered by the stench that oozed from everything within the room.

  “Never mind that. Do you have some ready?” asked Corza impatiently.

  “I just finished a fresh batch, sir. Please take it,” said the man, pointing to a bowl next to the door.

  Corza snatched the bowl from the table on his right and turned around to leave.

  “Keep making more. I need to build up some reserves,” he ordered, exiting the room without waiting for confirmation.

  Carefully holding the bowl, Corza hurried back to his room. One of his guards opened the door for him, allowing him to put the bowl on the table. He walked back to close the door.

  “Make certain none disturb me, not even a silent shadow,” he said strongly, then slammed the door shut.

  He hated this part. It was disgusting. His entire room would smell like weeks-old urine for days. But there was nothing to be done; this process required a certain delicacy he could not entrust to anyone else. Besides, those who helped might start asking questions—something he could never allow.

  No one must ever know.

  It took gallons of urine to skim enough foam from the cauldron. Soldier’s urine, or that of a bull, were best, but any animal of the male variety could be used. The more dominant and aggressive, the better.

  He returned to the table and scooped half of the cream into a large rounded flask. Using his spark stone on the bowl filled with alcohol, Corza brought a calm, blue flame into existence. He grabbed the cream-filled flask with metal pliers and softly swirled it through the flame.

  It did not take long until the cream started to bubble. Corza poured in a clear liquid to smoothen the cream before bringing it back above the flame. The steps were repeated several times, until the slight yellow color of the cream was nearly white.

  The product was one he stumbled across many years ago, when they were looking for ways to enhance their forces’ fighting power. Their thorough research into aggression as one of the aspects of a soldier’s capabilities had been a pet project of his, to reclaim that which he lost under the hand of his mother. That was, until he was ‘politely’ asked by Lord Rictor to focus on the ghol’ms.

  Corza stared at the solution, judging its purity, and smiled.

  See, mother? I have regained what you took from me.

  The scar below his belly still throbbed after the nightmare.

  Some, at least, he thought bitterly.

  He put the flask on the metal stand and grabbed the final, secret ingredient. None of the other generals knew about it. In fact, Lord Rictor was not even aware that Corza had succeeded in making it work. As far as everyone else knew, those days of research had been a waste of time.

  Corza took a larger bottle from his trunk. In it was a tiny kzaktor and some twigs to keep it fed.

  “Come on, my friend. Time to go to work.”

  Corza's hands moved calmly and precisely. Grabbing the tiny animal with pliers, he agitated it just enough to catch a few drops of the acid it excreted. Gently, he put it back and made a mental note to give it some fresh leaves and branches later that day. Turning back, he diluted the acid a total of seven times. If the acid was too strong, it would ruin the batch. Too watered down and the reaction he was looking for would be insufficient. It was all very precise.

  He held up the liquid against the light.

  Perfect.

  Painstakingly slowly, Corza dipped a small glass rod into the diluted kzaktor excrement, took it out and let it hover over the cream-filled flask. One drop was all he needed. Holding his breath, he watched the liquid gather at the bottom of the rod. A drop collected, grew heavy—and fell.

  Pulling back the glass rod, Corza watched the drop hit the prepared cream. As soon as it landed, the crystallization set in. It spread rapidly across the surface of the cream, producing the sound of fast-freezing water. With a smile, the high general watched the milky-white crystals complete their transformation until none of the cream was left.

  He delicately shook the flask, dislodging the crystals from the glass. With tweezers, Corza took a small piece of crystallized cream, put it in a tiny brown flask and added enough water to fill it up. Walking back out onto the balcony, he held his finger on the bottle and calmly shook it.

  He held the bottle up against the light, observing the tiny pieces of crystal generating even smaller bubbles. Satisfied with the result, he took a relaxing breath. He put the cap on the bottle, sliding the tiny glass rod that was attached to the cap into the liquid. He pulled it out and held back his head. Hovering above his right eye, he let the drops fall—one, two—before moving to his left. One, two.

  He closed the bottle as the effects of the dose surged through him. His heart rate increased, his pupils widened and he felt his mouth go dry. A shudder ran through his body, acknowledging his fine work. He felt the invisible blades of hatred and anger slip back into his hands as the drug coursed through his body.

  “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. That fucking whore.”

  His voice was sharp with fury. He used the newly created anger to push away his fears, to burn away the calmness his mother had forcefully bestowed upon him; that feeling of indifference that he loathed. Rage was the only thing strong enough to counter what he felt inside. It had become his tool to help him achieve his goals.

  “Never again, mother,” he spoke. Then he let out a wordless roar. Back inside, the door flew open.

  “High General Setra! Are you alright, sir? Sir? Where are you?”

  The soldiers rushed through
the room as Corza walked back in from the balcony, his exterior calm, but fury raging inside him. He composed himself and noticed he was still wearing his nightshirt. No wonder the kitchen staff had looked at him strangely. He took the sweat-soaked shirt off and threw it in the corner. Moving over to the closet, he grabbed a fresh set of clothes, put them on and continued with his armor.

  “Both of you, go and prep the young prince,” he said, still fighting to keep his voice under control. He always needed a moment to reach a stable level of anger, but once there, it would no doubt carry him through the day.

  “It’s going to be a long day. I feel I need to take my mind off things.”

  “Trista! Something’s up with Dalkeira! I think she smells something!”

  Trista looked up at the window her little brother’s voice had come through. Only now did she feel Dalkeira’s excitement trickle into her mind. She wiped her tears and wondered what was going on. She forgot her exhaustion, even when her muscles were kind enough to remind her when she got to her feet and climbed out the window. She circled back the way she came. She heard Decan’s voice, then suddenly a loud cracking sound rent the air. She rushed around the final corner—just in time to see Decan and Dalkeira disappear in a cloud of dust. Dalkeira attempted to fly, but she was too exhausted and out of balance.

  Trista dropped the plate that was still in her hand and raced forward. She stopped just in time to prevent herself from going over the edge of the gaping hole in the ground. Forced to take a few steps back as the sand beneath her feet started to shift, she lay herself flat on her stomach to spread out her weight and peered into the dust-filled hole.

  “Dalkeira? Decan? Are you alright?” she yelled.

  She heard coughing from below as the dust slowly settled. Rays of sunlight broke through the haze in the hole. The scene beneath the surface slowly took shape, including two shadows moving in the dust. The baby’s crying filled the air now as the rumbling sound had finally died out.

  “Decan? Are you okay? Where’s the baby?”

  “She is not here. She is still beneath the tower,” said Dalkeira in her head as the sound of coughing continued, along with something that Trista thought resembled a dragon’s sneeze.

  Trista turned around and spotted the child at the base of the tower.

  “What about Decan?” she said, swiftly walking over to comfort the crying girl.

  “He is alright. Just caught a large breath of dust on the way down.”

  Baby in arm, Trista returned to the edge of the hole. She could clearly see the subterranean chamber now, an enormous pile of sand covering several large slabs of stone that lay broken on the floor. Dalkeira and Decan were at the base of it, dusting themselves off.

  “The ceiling caved in,” said Decan after finding his voice again. “But the sand broke our fall.”

  On the edge of the sunlight, something sparkled.

  “What’s that in the corner?” said Trista.

  Dalkeira looked in the direction she pointed and trumpeted.

  “I knew it! I knew there was water here!” cried the dragon inside Trista’s mind.

  Dalkeira darted forward and sniffed the water up close.

  “Water? Are you sure?” asked Trista.

  “It smells fresh, but where is it coming from?” said Dalkeira in answer to Trista’s question.

  “There must be an underground water source nearby,” said Trista.

  The dragon took a quick taste to confirm, then plunged her entire head into the water. As she drank, Trista saw the color of Dalkeira’s scales darken, as if the water flowed directly into her skin. Decan wobbled over and washed the sand out of his mouth and eyes.

  It was a small reservoir of sorts, surrounded by a foot-high stone wall. Behind it, the water was several feet deep and constantly replenished through a hole in the wall. A separate hole drained off the water if it got too high, preventing it from overflowing. Around the basin hung flaxen roots, leading to small patches of moss that had withered away a long time ago, deprived of sunlight.

  Trista carefully looked around, making sure not to get too close to the edge of the hole. The rest of the room seemed very empty. Apart from a few stone benches and some pillars that held up the ceiling, she could not spot anything of interest from her point of view. Several of the pillars had crumbled, which would explain the collapse of the roof.

  Seeing her little brother drinking freely made Trista painfully aware of her own thirst. She threw their water bags down.

  “How about you fill those up for us?” Trista said to her brother.

  Decan looked up apologetically.

  “Sorry, Triss, let me get that for you.”

  Decan quickly returned with the filled water bags and climbed to the top of the pile of sand to throw them to her. The water bags slushed into the sand beside her. Trista quickly grabbed one of them and gulped down the cold liquid until she had to stop for air. Then she gave water in small amounts to the baby as well, allowing her to drink as much as she deemed safe. With this basin, they could make sure the baby had plenty of water. Dehydration would not be a problem anymore. Food, though…

  Below, Dalkeira sniffed the dead roots, but turned up her nose.

  “These do not smell like food.”

  “Decan, do you see any way out? It’s too high to jump and I don’t have a rope to pull you out.”

  “No, nothing,” called Decan after checking around.

  “I can search some more up here, but I haven’t seen anything yet that might act as a ladder,” said Trista.

  Decan slid down the pile of sand again to take a few more sips of water, then started looking around more earnestly. It was not long before he disappeared from Trista’s sight.

  “There’s a few doors here,” Decan called out to Trista. “Two of them have crumbled, but two others lead further into the building. It’s very dark, though.”

  Dalkeira got out of the water and walked back into the sunlight so she could examine the hole where Trista waited. Decan lingered around the doors, trying to see if he could spot anything in the pitch-black hallways.

  “I can carry him out when I am a bit more rested,” said Dalkeira.

  “Are you sure you'll be able to carry such a load? I don’t want you crashing back down and getting yourself hurt,” said Trista.

  “Of course I am sure,” said Dalkeira, annoyed that Trista would doubt her. The dragon walked around the pile of sand. “What is that boy doing? He should spend his time drinking instead of wandering around.”

  Decan turned toward her.

  “I can’t see anything down there at all; it’s way too dark. Doesn’t look like a way out.”

  Dalkeira decided to have a look of her own. Her dragon eyes would surely be able to see better in the low light then any human could. She set off for the doors when a swift movement caught her eye.

  “Decan, look out!” she bellowed.

  Bronson lifted his heavy head. His left eye throbbed painfully. It was swollen beyond the point of opening. His shirt was gone, but he registered the afternoon breeze brush against his skin, which glistened with sweat and blood. Thankfully, it had not been too sunny today, but despite that he was parched. His last drink was hours ago. He still tasted the bitterness of the herbs that were in it.

  His head spun. Since the twins showed up, High General Corza had doubled his efforts to torture him. Bronson was forced to swallow a herbal liquid every single day. “It’s good for you,” his captor said. But it clouded his mind; made it difficult to resist. During the torture, the same words were repeated over and over, until it was like they were carved on the inside of his skull.

  Your life is over. You belong to me. You will serve Corza Setra in life and death. There is no other truth but the words I say.

  Every time he repeated the words—sincerely—Corza gave a reward. A piece of food, some fresh air or a sip of water. He licked his dry lips at the thought of it. He even got to see his sister once. But if he refused or got it wrong,
the outcome was less than pleasant.

  Bronson fought hard to keep his sanity. In his rare moments of strength, he longed for death. He wished for nothing else. It was the only way out of this living hell. Against all hope, he waited for a mistake; for the general to accidentally kill him. But his torturer was much too skilled for that.

  In his moments of weakness—when his reasoning seemed to slip away—Bronson believed the words with every fiber in his body. He truly wished to serve the general. He would thrash around in his straps, not to escape but in desperation that he could not help his master. He wished for this man’s kindness. He desired to offer him his loyalty. Protect him. Help him achieve his goals.

  Then, when his mind inched back from the abyss of insanity, shame fell over him. He loathed himself for being so weak and desperately tried to hold on to his anger, tried to resist. But it was a losing battle and he knew it. It did not help that while the herb mixture numbed his will, it heightened the sense of pain in his body at the same time. The slightest touch felt like a burning coal pressed against his skin. It was excruciating, while the damage was kept at a minimum.

  Bronson had managed to take advantage of it once. In his torture-driven-madness, he regained enough of his mind to push the general’s buttons. The man had gotten so riled up, Bronson's punishment had been extreme. He passed out from the pain soon after, hoping to never wake up again. His mind was a cart, slipped away into the deep mines of nothingness.

  Afterward, when he came to in his bed, he cried. It had not worked. The high general was gone—which meant Bronson would get time to recuperate before it all started again.

  But today was different. There was something terrifying in the sessions this day, a relentless anger he had not seen in the general before. Bronson had passed out twice already, yet every time he came to, his demon was still there. His throat hurt, like he was swallowing knives. His voice was almost completely gone from all his screaming. He did not resist anymore; those days of stubbornness were long behind him now. He did what he was told, immediately, but still Corza grew angry at times. A misspoken word, a wrong tone or delay too long. Bronson could not help it—the herbs made it difficult to focus.