CHAPTER 2

When his mind finally found its place again, it was dark. Had he been out for that long? No… there was still light. It was faint, though, and far away. He blinked his eyes. Things began to focus. He saw light streaming in from a wide, craggy opening in the stone. He was inside a cave.

He sat up. Bad idea. His head felt like it was about to split in two. He gingerly placed his hand on the back of his head. It was warm and sticky. He looked at his fingers, stained crimson now with his blood.

“H-hello?” he stammered.

“Shh!” a voice called from somewhere the darkness. “Stay down. We don’t want them knowing we’re awake.” The voice was familiar.

“Torreck?” Laban whispered. “Where are we? What happened?”

“War’acks.”

That was not a word he wanted to hear.

“We need to leave,” Laban said. He scrambled to his feet and darted towards the door. His feet caught on something. He hadn’t noticed the chain wrapped around his ankle. The chain was pulled taut and Laban fell face-forward onto the stone floor of the cave. He ground his teeth against the pain. The rattling sound of the chain echoed back through the cave.

“Well, there go our chances of sneaking out,” Torreck said.

Laban heard voices coming from somewhere deeper within the cave. They were coming closer.

“Wh-what are they going to do to us?” Laban asked.

“Nothing good, that’s for sure,” Torreck replied. His voice had started to shake, betraying his fear.

“Can we break the chains? Pull them loose?” Laban said, frantically tugging at the clasp around his ankle.

“No use. I’ve tried. Nothing to break them with. They’re anchored in too deep. We’re not going anywhere.”

Laban watched in horror as the flickering lights from within the cave grew brighter. Angry shadows of people were cast against the sides of the cavern, brandishing torches and weapons. Dark figures soon emerged, wrapped from head to toe in dark robes, stained red with what Laban hoped was only mud.

“Have you ever met a War’ack before?” Torreck asked.

The mental locks he had kept wrapped around that time of his life suddenly began to come unhinged. Memories of faces, twisted and full of rage, flashed across his eyes. He remembered the bone-chilling screams, that continued on into the night, and didn’t stop even when the sun had risen again. He remembered a river whose waters flowed red...

“Yes,” Laban’s voice cracked. “ They killed most of our clan. I got away. A few others did, too. I don’t know how we managed to escape.”

“Think you can do it again?”

Laban retrieved the seer-stone from inside his hidden pouch.

“Oh, you don’t think some gods are going to save us now?” Torreck mocked.

“They are our only hope now,” Laban said somberly.

“Hello, my friends!” one of the War’acks interrupted. His voice was deep and resonant. The group stopped their advance. Many of them brandished pistols or slender rifles, obviously making them seen on purpose. One of them stepped forward and sat on the ground in front of them. He unraveled the bandages over his head, revealing a dark face covered in scars.

“Where are we?” Laban asked. Torreck jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. The War’ack smiled, showing his crooked teeth.

“You are my guests,” he replied slyly. “I thought we could get to know each other. I’ve already met your friend here. But you… what’s your story? No, no, let me guess. This man…” He pointed towards Torreck. “You’re his apprentice, aren’t you? He’s showing you the ropes. You’re new to the Outland. You’re just now learning to tame it.”

Laban didn’t say anything.

“I’m right, though, aren’t I?” the War’ack said. “You must have been a part of some other failed clan. It’s a common enough story, my boy. I’ve seen it. I’ve been out here far longer than you’ve been walking. Your master’s clan must have saved you before the rest of your family died off. Or… before we got a hold of them.” He let out a low, evil chuckle.

“Well, let’s get on with it, then,” Torreck suddenly shouted. He spat at their feet. “If you’re going to kill us, just get it over with.”

The War’ack reached into the folds of his cloak. He pulled out a shining knife with a long, curved blade. Laban noticed the grimy stones of several rings he wore on his fingers that glistened dimly in the light of his torch. The man pressed the blade against Laban’s throat. He could smell the foul stench of the War’ack’s breath.

“Not yet,” he said. He paused to savor the feeling of warm flesh under his blade. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I would certainly like to kill you. I am finding it very difficult not to slit your throat right now,” he spoke slowly and softly. “I always like watching the blood flow out. That’s my favorite part. It’s so… red… ” His voice trailed off. He withdrew and the knife disappeared back into his robes.

“But, no. You two are lucky.”

“And how is that?” Torreck asked.

“Because our Master is still away. You will have to wait.” He shouted something to his bodyguards in a deep, guttural language that more closely resembled a growl than actual speech. A man stepped forward and tied a coarse length of rope around both Laban and Torreck’s wrists before unbinding the chains around their ankles.

The man tugged at the rope, pulling the two boys to their feet.

“Who are you?” Laban whimpered.

“You may call me Samson,” their leader said. “Now you know whose name to curse in the coming weeks. Or days, or hours, depending on how much your weak bodies can handle. Come with me.” He pulled sharply on the rope. The sharp strands cut into the boys’ wrists.

“Absolutely, your highness,” Torreck grumbled.

“No… you may not call me that,” the War’ack leader said with an odd level of sudden seriousness.

He led them deeper into the heart of the cave. His minions followed close behind, jabbing them both incessantly in the back with the barrels of their rifles or prodding them with the points of jagged knives. They shouted and jeered all the way, spitting insults at them in their own vile tongue. Laban was thankful he could not comprehend their vulgarity. There was, however, one word that he recognized in their speech, one he had gleaned from past experiences with the War’acks�" khopaa: to kill.

Soon, the light of the opening behind them disappeared completely; all that was left to light their path was the red glow of the War’ack’s torches, dancing across the cragged walls. Crooked patterns, painted in blood, formed some crude artwork across the stones, made all the more horrifying in the dim light. The floor was riddled with bones that cracked and splintered underfoot.

“Where are you taking us?” Laban asked

“Well, you really are an inquisitive one,” Samson said. “I don't want to hear any more questions.”

Samson snapped his fingers, and the procession suddenly stopped. He barked an order at his henchmen, and one of them appeared at Laban’s side. He wrapped a filthy strip of cloth around Laban’s mouth, and did the same to Torreck.

“Ah,” Samson sighed. “Much better. We will keep going.”

The corridors of the cave system stretched ever onward and downward. As they descended, the air grew chill. A cold wind blew up from somewhere the unknown depths of the caverns. Disturbing sounds emanated from its many offshooting hallways and branches, echoing off the walls and back again, giving the impression that they were surrounded by hundreds of ghosts, crying in anguish at their eternal misery.

They stopped at the end of a tunnel. A rusty metal grate covered a hole in the floor. One of the War’acks lifted the grate, and another pushed Laban and Torreck forward with a forceful prod of his rifle. Laban peered into the dark abyss of the pit. As he looked down, there was a stiff pain at the back of his skull. He found himself careening downwards into the blackness before he had a chance to catch himself. His body screamed in pain as it met the jagged rocks below. He tumbled to a violent halt at the bottom of the darkness.  The sounds and scents of the world around him slowly faded into a blur, and suddenly he was floating through the night sky, watching the stars drift by in perfect silence…

*****

Distant voices seemed to flutter around his head. The words sounded slant-ways and jumbled. It was all a bunch of nonsense. A ghostly hand reached out and seemed to grab him around the shoulder, gently tugging him deeper into his Hell. Laban panicked. He flailed his arms, attempting to strike at the spectre that held him fast.

Everything suddenly snapped back into place. He was lying on his back�" conscious, but barely. It must have been Torreck’s hand that was softly nudging him awake.

“Laban,” spoke the foggy voice. “Laban! Can you hear me?”

He tried to speak, but his mouth would not respond. A weak nod was all he could muster.

“You took a pretty nasty fall, there,” Torreck said. “Well, we both did. I guess I fared better than you. How does your head feel?”

“Hurts,” Laban squeaked. That was the understatement to trump all. His entire body ached all the way to the bone. He noticed that the pain was sharper in some points than others. Laban lifted his hand to remove whatever was obscuring his vision, but found nothing. All was swallowed in blackness. Even his hand, inches from his face, was still invisible.

“What happened?” Laban asked.

“The War’acks chucked us down a hole. They closed it up and then left.”

Laban tried to sit up. He placed his hand on a nearby stone in order to prop himself up, but it crumbled under his weight, reduced to nothing but dust. Laban let out a startled shriek when he realized that it was not rock, but bone upon which he sat.

Torreck must have realized the source of his terror. “I guess I should have told you,” he said. “I don’t think we’re the first ones to get thrown down here.”

“Why are we still alive?” asked Laban.

“I don’t know,” Torreck replied. “I think they’re waiting.”

“Waiting? Why? For whom?”

“My best guess would be a man named Ithtar. I’ve heard stories… from some of the other hunters. He’s a War’ack leader. He says he’s the king of all the War’ack.”

“And you led us right into his den?”

“No,” Torreck snapped. “Our people have always been careful to stay away from War’ack territory. The thing is, though, that they aren’t careful to stay out of Malkuth. I had no idea that they were marauding as far south as where we were. No one did.”

“We’ll have to warn the others, then. We have to escape.”

“You’ve obviously never heard any of the stories about Ithtar. If you had, you’d be wishing that Samson had just killed us before he had even brought us into this cave. Like I said, we’re not the first ones to be thrown into this pit.”

“So, what? They’ll just leave us down here to starve to death?”

Torreck scoffed. “You really think they’ll be that merciful?”

Laban’s heart sank. He knew that Torreck was right. This pit would be their grave, as it was the grave for so many countless others. Laban silently wondered to himself if this was the same band of War’acks that had raided their camp so long ago. He knew it wasn’t likely; heaven knows how many tribes and factions that lay hidden in the blood-soaked sands of their territory. But Laban could not help but imagine the faces of Samson and the other War’ack soldiers among those who had invaded their campsite, burning their tents and stealing their people away. The flash of their blades and their rifles had forever been burned into his eyes. Those few short days, in Laban’s mind, had stretched on for longer than eternity. Sleep would not come, and the pain of hunger never abated. There was no peace then�"only chaos and death.

Yet, Laban still remembered the soft hand of his mother on his shoulder. She had been by his side. She was there to hold him and to cover his eyes during the times their captors were especially brutal. They hid as long as they could. She whispered in his ear comforting words and sweet lullabies from his childhood.

Then they took her. He was torn from her arms, and she disappeared into the fog of smoke and fire. Laban could hear her scream. Her tortured cries rang in his ears so much louder than the others. Then they stopped.

Laban realized that tears were now flowing freely down his cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. He was grateful, at least, that the darkness could hide his crying from Torreck. He let the numbness of his despair overtake him. A dreadful silence filled the chamber.

“Hey, kid�" er… Laban,” Torreck said, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault that we ended up here.”

Laban didn’t say anything.

“Oh. Hey, I’ve got something that might cheer us up. Are you hungry?” asked Torreck.

“Starving. You have food?”

“I did actually find some edible plants a ways up the canyon. It’s not much more than a snack, but at least it’s something.”

“How did you manage to hold on to it?” Laban asked.

“They only took our bags and our masks when they captured us. I guess they never bothered to check my pockets. Lucky for us, I guess. Here, hold out your hand.”

Torreck placed a handful of small, leafy sprouts into his open palm.

“They may not taste like much,” Torreck said. “But they’re supposed to be full of vitamins and stuff. I like chewing on the roots. Once you get through the bitterness, they turn almost sweet.”

Laban pulled a few leaves off the stem and popped them into his mouth, slowly grinding them between his teeth. They didn’t have much flavor, so he let them linger on his tongue as long as possible before swallowing.

“Hey… thanks,” Laban said.

“Yeah,” Torreck sighed. “Don’t thank me just yet. We’re still trapped down here.”

Torreck turned to look at Laban. He could feel his eyes on him through the darkness. “Are you scared?” Torreck asked.

Laban didn’t need to answer that question.

“I guess that’s a pretty stupid question,” said Torreck. “I’m scared too.”

Of course he was. There wasn’t a soul on the planet that wouldn’t be.

“At least it’s quiet,” Laban said finally. “For now.”

“I always hated the quiet,” Torreck said. “But… I guess some quiet is better than the alternative.”