Frostarc

by Arthur McMahon

  Luciele was right where he had left her. When he returned she sighed in relief and used him as an excuse to get away from the old woman. “I couldn’t hear a thing she was saying, but every time I tried to excuse myself away she grabbed my arm and reeled me back in like a big ol’ fish she was trying to tire out. And I’ll tell you what, I almost tuckered out and gave up. I was ready to plop down right next to her and listen to her little jibberings blabber on.” They walked on to meet someone else, but Caleb looked back and saw that the elderly woman’s mouth kept on muttering even after they had left.

  They were met with sullen faces as they meandered through the camp and were ignored by those Luciele tried to start a conversation with. A young couple left the group at the shore and approached Luciele and Caleb.

  “Hi there,” said the petite girl with auburn hair, “my name is Kelly and this is my boyfriend, Richard. You both looked kinda lost and lonely so we thought we'd come on over and give ya a smile. There ain't too many happy faces around here.”

  “Not many talkers either,” said Richard, a young man with blonde hair and a thin frame. “Welcome to the survivor's camp, full of the dreary and self-absorbed, the battered and broken, the pricks and—” He stopped and smiled at Kelly, seeing that she was giving him a level stare. “Anyway, nice to meet you both.”

  “Yes, well I'm Luciele and this is my son, Caleb. Say 'hi' Caleb.”

  “Hi.”

  “It's a pleasure to meet you two,” said Luciele. “I'm glad there's someone around here who's willing to talk and isn't crazy. Poor old woman back there has a few too many badgers in her coop.”

  “We've been here a couple days and still haven't been able to get most people to open up,” said Kelly, “that's why we've been hanging out with the teens and such. Even in the midst of all this chaos they still want to have fun.”

  “All the other folks are too sad or whacked out or mad,” said Richard, “speaking of mad....” Richard nodded in the direction behind the group and everyone turned to see three men marching intently towards them. It was Freddy, Tim, and Daryll, all with their weapons drawn. Freddy held his weapon low and slowed as the men approached the group, but Daryll and Tim walked right up to Luciele with their eyes fixed on Caleb as he hid behind his mother.

  “Show yourself, boy,” said Daryll, “I've got a few questions to ask you.”

  “Hold on there slick,” said Kozz as he pushed his way between Luciele and the men. “Why don't you take a couple steps back.”

  “Didn't know you were harboring an infected with yeh,” said Daryll as he was forced to take a step back from Kozz's intimidating size.

  “No one is infected, slick.”

  “We know about the boy,” said Tim. “His own words. He tol' Freddy's kid that he was infected.”

  Caleb gripped his mother's dress tight and shrunk as small as he could behind her. She stood strong in front of her son and had Kozz move to her side.

  “My son is a healthy young boy you nitwits. You leave him alone or I'll be jumping on you like a whitecat on a fluff rabbit.”

  “Your son is a threat to our community if he's carrying the disease,” said Daryll. “Now, if he is indeed healthy and is just going around telling falsities then we don't have much of a problem. However, if he is sick, we will have to deal with him in a manner that will ensure the safety of our people. Freddy here told us what he said to little Sammy. I want to have a look at the boy and have him tell me the truth.”

  “I'm sorry ma'am,” said Freddy, “I didn't mean for this.”

  “Shut up Freddy,” said Tim as he whacked Freddy in the arm with the butt of his rifle. Freddy rubbed his bruised flesh and walked back to his designated section of the camp where his son, Samuel, waited for him.

  “The boy isn't infected,” said Kozz.

  “Well what he told Freddy's kid,” said Daryll, “was that he was and you…—”

  “He never was infected.”

  “I want to hear it from the kid.”

  “You've got my word, slick.”

  “I want the boy's word!”

  “You leave the child alone or I'm gonna have to get nasty.”

  “I'd like to see you try.”

  “You're gonna regret those words—.”

  “Enough!” shouted Luciele. Caleb moved away from his mother's guard and stepped forward. The point of Tim's gun lifted a nudge when the boy appeared, and Daryll's had taken a noticeable turn in Kozz's direction.

  Richard and Kelly both moved to Caleb's side. Luciele put her hand on her son's shoulder, as did Kelly, but Caleb took another step forward and let their hands fall behind him. He thought about the heroes in his comics.

  “Before you reach the clearing at the end of the path, go and blaze your own trails through the muck and grime of life.”

  “I was infected,” muttered Caleb.

  “What was that, boy?” asked Daryll. “I didn't hear yeh.”

  “Hush Caleb,” warned Luciele.

  “Caleb, don't!” Kozz huffed. The world turned into a blur. His chest ached and his mind raced through a thousand outcomes, all ending with Kozz unable to prevent Caleb's death. Past nightmares haunted him. He could not think. He could not move. He was going to fail again.

  “Let the boy speak!” shouted Daryll. “Say what you need to say, boy. Tell us the truth.”

  “Do not be afraid to get a little dirt on your boots.”

  “I was infected!” Caleb's strong voice shocked his friends. It was the loudest Kozz had ever heard the boy speak, and it was a side of Caleb that even Luciele had never seen.

  Tim raised his weapon and Kozz lurched forward to barricade Caleb with his own body. Daryll and Tim were stirred by the sudden movement and swung their weapons around in the excitement as everyone hollered at one another. Kozz's face was red hot. The commotion was a whirlwind in his head. From somewhere he heard Luciele comment that she could burn them a path through the sea with his forehead. He had to stay between Caleb and the men that were...between the boy and the...between Jake and.... All went to blackness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Caravan

  A body wanders the desert. Many would see his smooth face and call him a boy, though all who have spoken with him would call him a man. Guthrow is dying.

  Dark leather rests atop his head and shoulders, appearing to have seen more years than Guthrow himself. His hat's wide brim has several bullet-sized holes scattered throughout, and a section of the back has been sliced off. His coat at one point reached near his ankles, but the wears of battle and age have given it a ragged edge that now stretches just past the knee. Dark jeans resemble an old black dog with gray whiskers and sores, and his shirt looks like a dirty washcloth that has been rolled in the sand for hours on end.

  At first glimpse you would notice the adolescent features of a pubescent boy,— smooth skin that is only broken by the few facial hairs of a young man, the stubble accentuating a prominent jaw line with rough precision. A closer look reveals the hard years that have given age to the young face. That spring one would associate with youthful skin is fading, giving way to gravity. The oils that make young men shine are all but lost in Guthrow. Small cracks grow in the corners of his eyes and lips, and his fingers have lost their grip. His striking eyes put fear in the hearts of wicked men, staring them down with the pale yellow of a sun in its final days.

  And beside him is his crow. The sun does not reflect a sleek shine off of what is left of the black bird's feathers as one would expect, instead it returns the sun's rays with a dusky gray glow. One look at the bird and a person would hesitate to go near the sickly looking thing. The bald spots are expanding, and a colorless plague is spreading from its beak into its eyes. Guthrow's faithful companion hops alongside its master, leaving little cross marks in the orange desert sands.

  “Times are tough my small friend,” says Guthrow to the hopping bird as it gives an attentive look to its master. “This is going to be our final assault.” The crow tries t
o caw in response, but all that comes out is a dry hack. Water has been scarce in this latest venture of theirs, a portent to the duo's eventual demise.

  Behind them lies a city in ruin, and ahead in the distance is Loh'khal, desert palace of the last Demon King. The craggy architecture looks like a small hill on the far horizon, but Guthrow knows of its immensity. The mountain's face is forever obscured by shadow, and its belly reaches to unknown and fathomless dark depths. The King surely rests at the top where she can ruminate over her dark kingdom and worldly destruction.

  Ages have passed as man and demon have waged their wars against each other, both striving for dominion over the soils of the planet. There was a time when the era of men was almost at an end, but their strong hearts and brave souls galvanized in their final hour. The demons poisoned the seas and burned the forests, almost eliminating all life on the planet. After centuries of struggle, the lives of men and animal are once again beginning to bloom. The world of man is being rebuilt, and the forests are sprouting anew. The darkness has been fought back to the deepest corners of the world where men rarely venture. It has now come to this, our weary warrior marches into the blighted lands of the last Demon King, bent on eradicating the final nightmarish plague and putting an end to humanity's horrific bane.

  The torrid sea of sand sings its silent song of swelter and emboldens the air above it to dance around Guthrow and across the vast horizon. The slight wind is a breath of fire that lifts Guthrow's coat like a cape and robs his skinny figure of its remaining moisture. His blind companion hops across the scorching desert fast enough to avoid most of the direct heat, but it must take leave every so often to rest atop its master's hat. Together they share a few sips of their remaining water.

  Night is the best time for travel and for nourishment. A small puddle of an oasis appears in the distance. “This is the last stop for us, friend,” Guthrow says to the crow as they approach the water's edge. “Any liquid past this point will be poison to you and I.” Guthrow fills up his pouch with water that is sharp on the tongue, then he snags a couple of small lizards and a flat-eared fox for what will be his last meal.

  The food is hard to swallow, and harder to keep down— even the sickly crow can only eat a few small bugs. The taste of the meat is not bad, but Guthrow's body is older than it appears, and he is a dying man. Only his friend, the little crow by his side, knows how pale he has become below the deep tan of his skin. Guthrow's tawny eyes were pallid even in his younger days, but now most of the yellow has washed out and they have turned a creamy, flaxen white, mirroring the ailing eyes of his blind friend.

  Dawn is approaching and the duo decide to get up and put a few more hours of sand behind them before they rest during the high heat of midday.

  The next few days of travel grow increasingly more difficult. The shadowy mountain in the distance moves ever closer, and so with it grows a weight in the air and the swathe of blighted ground expands. The heavier air is thick with malice, and the darkened, cracked soil is almost painful to the touch. Figures appear along the wanderers' path, faint shadows and ghosts of the past that disappear when Guthrow and his crow come near. Unseen beasts torture the night with their sordid cries that extinguish the courage of weaker men.

  “Stay close to me friend, we're not safe anymore.” Guthrow always looks at the crow's eyes when he speaks to it, and the crow has always looked back. Now that the infection from its beak has taken over its eyes, it can only direct its attention to its master's voice. “There are phantoms about. The demon we're after knows we're coming, and she's afraid. She'll send all of her evil creations after you, because she knows I cannot defeat her without your help.”

  At this moment Guthrow drops to a knee and opens one of the small cloth pouches tied to his belt. From the pouch he pulls out a pinch of sparkling white powder and sprinkles it on the head and back of his little friend. The crow is aware of what its master is doing as they have been in situations like this many times before. After a few moments the crow glows with a very faint white light. Again they walk, but now the crow leaves behind ashen white footsteps that slowly swell across the landscape behind them and cover the dark, blighted ground with a dull white that glitters in the moonlight. “This will give your body some protection,” Guthrow says with more hope than fact, “and it will prevent the phantoms from following our path and creeping up on us from behind.”

  A normal man would have a hard time noticing it, but Guthrow has been subject to increasing pain the last few nights and his body is becoming weak. The weathered wayfarer knows that he cannot possibly go against the entirety of the demon kingdom, and so he is going to have to find his way to the King without entering the heart of her domain.

  It is no more than a day's walk to the mountain, now. The closer they move to the brooding, craggy cliff, the cooler the air becomes. The flat, sandy surface is being replaced by small, gritty rocks upon an incline that leads to the mountain's base. Small structures dot the landscape, marked in some foul language that humans have never been able to decipher. Large stones lie in the distance, and soon the dusty brown of the desert will meld into the dull blacks and grays of the mountainside.

  The crow has been resting atop his master's hat far more than usual this day. A deep, gurgling hack frequents its old body. Guthrow lifts the crow from his head and holds it in his arms like a mother would a newborn. “You must survive this one last day my old friend. Soon we will have the chance to rid this planet of its dark disease. A thousand or more years we have traveled together, and it has all come down to this. If we can kill the last Demon King, we will never have to suffer their wretched kind again.” With that, the crow forces out an almost clear “caw” and drops to its feet with a few weak flaps, falling gently to the ground.

  Night approaches. It is no longer safe.

  Ghastly howls and enigmatic gargles come forth from the shadowy mountain. The climb has become more steep. Guthrow and his crow have reached the base. On the soles of his feet, Guthrow can feel the pulse of the darkness and wicked magic that lie within the hidden kingdom. Black smoke seethes out of cracks in the rocky surface, lingering along the ground.

  The lesser demons appear once more, but now they are aggressive. The dark figures resemble human silhouettes made of liquid charcoal and they float across the landscape like impressionist paintings in motion. Guthrow finds himself surrounded by their shadow and knows that he must protect the crow and himself. He reaches into a jar stationed at his right hip. From the jar Guthrow grabs a handful of lotion, then with his other hand he grabs a pinch of the white, sparkling powder from a pouch and mixes the two together. He spreads the increasingly glowing paste on his hands, then lifts them and holds out his palms towards the hostile figures. Strong yellow beams emit from his palms like spotlights powered by the sun. Guthrow slowly motions his hands around his body and across the nearby terrain, dissolving the demons which fall prey to the light and warding off the quicker and more powerful foes. “These light tricks will keep us safe for now,” says Guthrow, “but the higher our road becomes the more dangerous it is going to be.”

  The magic light helps the duo make it to dawn, but this side of the mountain will never see direct sunlight. The peak curls over the desert facing edge and casts a dark shadow over the only scaleable side of the mountain. The shadows hide in the shade, present but not as daring as they are at night. There is no true path to follow; the wispy figures need no footpath. The crow hops from rock to rock, opening its wings for the larger leaps. It sometimes trips and needs help in finding its footing again. Guthrow moves with an ardent haste, but minds each step on the rock surface; his boots have thinned over the years and a twisted ankle would mean his doom when night falls.

  A quiet pain has been lying dormant in Guthrow's forehead since leaving the oasis, but once he reached the base of the mountain it has intensified and has become an agonizing distraction. The weakness that has crept into his body can only mean that his time is near. The crow fares no better, as
the infection that plagues its face has nearly covered its entire head and taken many feathers with it. Both share a ghastly white complexion and utter exhaustion, physically and mentally. There will be no tomorrow for these wanderers, one way or another. Guthrow knows this and plans for the final assault.

  Guthrow adjusts his belt and the sacks tied around it. From his back he brings forward a large pouch, full of cream-colored marbles that will explode with lights and colors upon impact with the hard ground. In a moment of rest the duo finish off the remaining nourishment and dispose of the containers. Before dusk settles Guthrow sheds himself of his coat and hat. He pulls out a few jars and the sparkling white powder, mixing together a concoction that is similar to the previous night's spotlights. He empties the jars and throws them down the cliffside. Little white powder remains. The thin man spreads out the ivory cream mixture on a flat rock and uses his hands to smear the cream along the outside of his tattered coat and the top of his hat, creating a shiny glaze. “Tonight is the night, my friend,” Guthrow says to the crow as he applies the last of the mixture to the brim of his hat. “You know this. Our world will be at peace once again if we finish this undertaking. The evil spawn of mankind will be exterminated and our human and animal worlds will thrive once again. I'll give you everything I have, friend, but there is not much left of me to give. My exhaustion is severe, as is my pain. I will do all I can to get you to this last Demon King so that you can do your duty. I only hope that your blindness and inability to fly will not hinder your power. May those we fight for be in our hearts this night.”