CHAPTER 4

“Good morning!” bellowed a voice from above. Someone rapped on the metal of the hatch. It made a cruel, metallic sound that grated against their eardrums. Rude awakening…

“I’ve been so looking forward to meeting my new friends!” the voice continued. “Although, I doubt that you would say the same for me!”

Laban sat up and rubbed his aching head. He looked down at the knife, still clenched in the palm of his hand.

“Take it!” he said, extending the knife to Torreck. “It’s no use if they know we have it!”

“You’re right,” Torreck responded, as loud as he could without the others overhearing. “You keep it. Hide it. I think I’ll stick with my bone club.”

Torreck reached forward and grasped the slender bone in front of him. It still bore the stain of blood on one end. He slid the club behind him, obscuring it from sight. Laban carefully tucked the knife into the folds of his coat, deep enough to keep it hidden, but still close enough to grab if he needed.

The hatch was opened, and several War’ack men let themselves down with a rope. Samson was the final one to enter the cave before the rope disappeared back up the opening. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly when his gaze met the burned scar across Torreck’s leg.

“Oh, you are a smart one,” said Samson. The deep baritone of his voice resonated through the cave. “Our master will enjoy this.”

“Your master?” Torreck said.

Sampson put a hand up to silence them. He looked up through the opening of the cave and motioned for something to be lowered. A man appeared through the hatch. He did not climb, but was lowered into the pit by the means of a shoddy platform connected by strands of frayed rope. The platform was carpeted with a stained piece of reddish velvet, as if the War’ack were attempting to convey some sense of actual elegance or dignity. Laban would have scoffed at this display, had his tongue not been so completely held by fear.

“Hello, young ones,” the man said as soon as his platform had reached the floor. He sat on the ground so as to be at eye-level with the two starving prisoners. He looked at each one for a long time, making sure to hold eye contact long enough to make it very uncomfortable. His pale blue eyes twinkled like stars in the torchlight, and his rotten teeth peeked out from beneath a black, bristly beard.

“Very young ones, indeed,” he continued. He clicked his tongue. “From the stories that dear Samson has told me about you, I would have expected someone a little… taller,” he looked at Torreck as he spoke.

“Yes… it was you, wasn’t it?” the War’ack said. He looked at Laban. “The one that made that dead body over here? This other boy doesn’t have the strength in his arm, I don’t think.”

The grimy War’ack placed his hands on Laban’s shoulders. He squeezed, making sure to dig his pointed fingernails into his flesh. Laban let out a small whimper. The War’acks all laughed, but only after their master had done so.

“Yes… I am right. I am also surprised that you’ve even made it to be this old. I’d’ve thought a child as thin as you would have snapped in half on his first day on the Outland.”

He turned back to Torreck. “But you… Master Torreck, isn't it? I am impressed. Perhaps you would make a good addition to my band of soldiers. Stand. I want to get a proper look at you.”

Torreck’s lips hurled a wad of spit towards the War’ack.

“I don’t take orders from War’ack slavers,” Torreck said.

“Fine,” the man replied with a shrug. “You can be made to stand all the same.”

He snapped his fingers. Samson came to his side. Keeping one hand wrapped around the grip of his pistol, he grabbed Torreck’s wrist and twisted it until his arm was probably close to popping out of its socket. Torreck ground his teeth, but relented against the pain and rose to his feet.

“I will be honest,” the man said. “I don’t like you. I can see that the days you have spent in my dungeon have not done anything to weaken your spirit. Your eyes tell me that you still have some fight left in you. I prefer my meals to be much more... tender. Perhaps Samson was too soft on you both during his last visit.”
He glanced over his shoulder towards his shamefaced henchman.

“I see that your ear hasn’t fared very well,” said the man, grabbing Torreck’s chin and turning his face side to side. “And your leg has suffered some damage… though I can tell that Samson’s hand didn’t do the worst of it.”

He let go of Torreck. He lifted his boot and slammed his heel into the open wound on his leg. Torreck cringed and collapsed on the floor.

“The other one,” the man said to his entourage, “He hasn’t been damaged nearly enough. Beat them.”

The War’acks all smiled in unison. Some brandished heavy wooden clubs, embedded with thorns or shards of metal. Others flashed jagged knives or coiled whips. Samson stepped forward. His clenched fist flew through the air, driven with the force of a locomotive. Torreck’s face crumpled under the impact. He flew backwards, carried by the sheer weight of the blow. Samson’s collection of bejeweled rings left bloody marks in his cheek.

Two glistening teeth fell off his lips in a stream of crimson ooze. If any of the torturers continued to beat Torreck after that, Laban didn’t know�" he saw the blunt edge of an axe for only an instant before it broke his nose. His head spun. He tasted the warm flow of blood from his nostrils. He fumbled blindly for the hidden knife in his coat. He hardly had any time before he felt another blow to his side. Something else it him in the stomach. He began to feel the sharp sting of a whip across his chest and face. His vision blurred. The lights of torches and the shadowy faces danced around him like dark clouds on a stormy day. He raised his arms to protect himself, attempting to cover his already battered face, but stronger arms took his wrists and pinned them to the ground. He writhed and flailed and screamed for release, but his muscles soon lost their strength and faded quickly. His entire body pulsed with white-hot numbness, apparently his body’s final defense against the endless barrage of pain.

It all stopped. The weapons and whips suddenly disappeared, but the pain lingered. Laban strained to breathe under his cracked ribs and bruised flesh. His vision had been reduced to narrow slits between his swollen eyelids. He could still see, however, the face of his torturer. Ithtar’s pleasure at the sight before him was evidenced by a twisted grin and a mischievous sparkle that shone in his eyes.

Laban discreetly slipped his hand into his coat and pulled the stone from its pouch. He muttered a silent prayer. He gripped the seer-stone so tightly that he thought its eye might be permanently embedded in his palm.

“I think you’ve had enough,” the War’ack leader said. “At least enough that your own mothers wouldn’t recognize you…”

This man wouldn’t dare talk about his mother... Laban’s rage began to boil, but his mind was so foggy and twisted from the pain that it was impossible to focus on a coherent thought for more than an instant. Thinking was like trying to catch the flittering seeds of a dandelion as they floated on the breeze.

“You see, children, you are very lucky,” said the War’ack. “Lucky you ran into me and not one of the tribes that think they can call themselves War’ack. You see, we are the only true kingdom. The Outland is mine. But I am in truth a much nicer man than the stories would lead you to believe…” He paused. “There are stories, aren’t there? Have you heard them? What do they say about me?”

“They say the War’ack aren’t human,” Torreck said through clenched teeth. “They pillage and rape and murder just because they can. I guess they were right all along.”

“Oh, no…” the War’ack clicked his tongue again, then started to laugh. “Not those stories. Those ones are silly. Boring. No, I’m talking about the stories about the Shadow Man.”

“With no due respect,” Laban said. “You are not the Shadow Man.”

“Aren’t I?” the War’ack frowned. “And here I thought I was doing such a good job.”

“The Shadow Man is the incarnation of evil. He lives in the pits of Hell where he is the architect.”

“Oh, my dear child!” the War’ack said with sudden fury. His eyes burned with rage. He leaned in towards Laban, so close that their noses nearly touched. “Where do you think I come from?” A filthy grin spread over his lips. “I once visited Hell. You know what happened? It spit me back out. That is who I am. The silly tales about a shadow man are just me, a human. Very mortal, yet invincible. I am Lord Ithtar of the War’ack. I am your nightmares.”

Ithtar’s stare sent a cold shiver up Laban’s spine. He froze, paralyzed from head to toe.

“Yes… I can tell that you don’t believe me,” Ithtar said. “But I also know that you are scared. That is enough. If I allowed you to go home, your stories would serve well to further cement my reputation in legend. Unfortunately for the two of you, I would prefer to watch your bodies rot. Farewell, my children… But first. Do you have any last words? I like to write down that sort of thing.”

His henchmen grinned beneath their hoods as they loaded and primed their weapons. They had been waiting for this kill. Laban and Torreck suddenly found themselves staring down the barrels of at least five loaded guns.

“It’s your last words we should be writing down,” Torreck said. The rest of the gang only laughed.

“Take aim,” Ithtar said.

“No, I’m serious,” Torreck said. “Have any of you ever heard the name Klito?”

The men suddenly lowered their weapons.

“Are you a part of the Order of the Heretics?” Samson asked with a whisper.

“What?” Torreck said. “Oh, I mean… yes. Most definitely a part of the Order. I am Commander Torreck Vitorr of the Order Honor Guard. My men will be here in seconds to wipe your pitiful existence off the face of this planet.”

For only a brief moment, Laban thought he saw genuine fear in the eyes of the marauders. It soon melted, however, and was replaced by the fires of murderous treachery.

“You’re bluffing,” Samson smiled. A heavy foot delivered a sharp kick to Torreck’s chest. He doubled over, coughing up gobs of blood. Samson pressed the end of a pistol to Torreck’s temple.

“Okay, yeah, I may have been bluffing a bit,” Torreck stammered. “What the hell even is the Order of Heretics? Someone’s been telling you stories, man. Is Ithtar trying to frighten you with scary bedtime stories?” Torreck glowered at Ithtar as he spoke. A cocky smile appeared on his lips.

“The story of Klito is a very old legend,” Ithtar said. His voice had turned smooth, waxing nearly poetic. “Yes, the tales of his heroics have even reached the darkest corners of my fortresses. But I think you’ll find that such stories are as much a fabrication as the fables of the dreaded Shadow Man. You are much more foolish than I thought if you think we would be intimidated by your nursery rhymes.” Ithtar scoffed. “I honestly can’t believe that there is anyone left on the outland that still believes in such childish fables. Or maybe…. I can…” Ithtar’s eyes wandered down to Laban’s clenched fists, more specifically to what was hidden within.

“Show me your hand, boy,” Ithtar ordered. “I would hate for you to have to lose it.”

Laban recoiled, trying to hide the stone in his palm.

“Oh, so be it,” Ithtar said, drawing his blade. It was long, curved, and meticulously polished�" a much finer thing than any typical War’ack weapon. It shone mirror-bright in the light of the torches, so that Laban could see his own face, beaten black and blue, reflected in the surface.

“Laban! Give him the rock!” Torreck shouted. Ithtar wrapped his gloved hand around Laban’s wrist, pressing it against the cave floor, clamping down like a vice. He pressed it against the cave floor,“One more chance, child,” Ithtar said.

“Laban, it’s not worth it,” Torreck pleaded. “Hand it over.”

“Silence, child!” Ithtar snarled. The fire that raged in his eyes burned brighter than ever. Torreck leaned in and spat in Ithtar’s face. Bloody spittle ran down his bearded cheek. He wiped it away with his tattered sleeve.

In an instant, the fire boiled over, flowing freely like explosive lava from the lip of a volcano. The anger could not be contained. It coursed through his veins, burning, blazing, consuming Ithtar until there was nothing left but a faceless demon of pure rage. The shadows around him grew thick. The darkness on his face was impenetrable, deeper than the darkest night in the pits of this dungeon.

The razor-thin blade flashed through the air. Laban didn’t have the time to look away before a gash ripped open across Torreck’s throat. Laban turned his head to the side and pressed his eyes shut, but he could still hear the choked gasps, the spatter of hot, thick blood against the stony floor, and the derisive laughter from the apparently soulless audience of War’acks.

“Ah,” Ithtar smiled. “That’s better. Now, give me the stone.”  He held his knife high with the other hand, ready to strike like a coiled snake.

Laban looked at what was left of Torreck. He was gone. Soon, he would be too, at least if Ithtar was feeling merciful. Even if he protested, Ithtar would not hesitate to literally pry it from is dead hand. Reluctantly, Laban spread his quivering fingers. The brown stone rolled out of his hand and onto the floor of the cave.

“Good choice,” Ithtar said.

The knife came down all the same, slicing through flesh and bone with sickening efficiency.

Laban screamed and cursed in pain, grasping the stump of his wrist with his remaining good hand. He used the loose ends of his robes to wrap the wound. It wasn’t long before his entire cloak was soaked with blood.

Ithtar smiled as he scooped up his new prize, inspecting the polished rock and the etchings on its surface.

“It won’t do anything for you. Those who control the stone will protect it,” said Laban.

“Oh, I am lucky,” he said. “It looks like I’ve caught myself a mystic. I’m surprised. I honestly thought your religion was long dead. Everyone just seemed to stop praying once they saw how much death the desert brings.”

Ithtar stood. The stone vanished into the robes of his cloak. He wiped the blood from his knife. He carefully fingered the edge of the blade, peering at Laban through squinted eyes, as if contemplating his next move.

Finally, he sheathed the weapon. “I won’t kill you,” he said. Laban didn’t trust that his ears had heard him correctly. But Ithtar’s henchmen looked just as confused as he was.

“I won’t kill you,” he repeated. He put his hands up, as if in surrender. “Perhaps you can still be of service to me outside of this cave.”

He turned to Samson and muttered something that Laban couldn’t understand. Samson pulled a cloth sack over Laban’s head, and he was once again plunged into darkness. War’ack hands pulled him to his feet and shoved him forward. He felt wiry ropes being tied around his ankles. Suddenly the floor was taken out from beneath him. He only just managed to catch himself with his one good hand before his face would have broken on the stone floor. The ropes tugged upward, and Laban was left dangling helplessly by a string. Blood rushed to his already throbbing head. The soft, dizzy embrace of unconsciousness began to surround him…

The War’acks placed him upright outside of the hatch and loosed the bands around his feet. He could barely stand, but the barrel of a rifle against the back of his neck compelled him to walk�"or rather, stumble blindly�"forward. When he collapsed, the thugs dragged Laban’s half dead body upward through the winding caverns of their home.

The hood came off. Laban squinted against the sudden light in front of him, brighter than any torch. It came from the mouth of the cave. They were at the surface. Sunlight streamed through, warming Laban’s frozen body.

“Well, my boy,” Ithtar said, standing beside him. “There is a sight I’m sure you weren’t expecting to see again. See? You are lucky. And I am kind.”

Laban didn’t speak. He stared out into the desert beyond the cave. He wanted so badly to run, but his legs had no strength.

“I’ll give you a choice,” Ithtar continued. “A second chance, if you will. You show courage and strength. Not as much as your friend back there, but you can be taught...”

“What are you saying?” Laban asked.

“Join us. We will feed you, clothe you, give you work. In short, we will let you live.”

“I think I would rather die than live under the name of War’ack,” Laban replied.

Ithtar gestured to the wide mouth of the cavern. “Then you may leave. I will not stop you. I will order my men to stand down. You will be free to run across the wilderness until you are picked apart by whatever desert creature finds you first. The choice is yours, my boy, but I warn you that I am not a patient man, and, well, my men are already anxious for another kill.”

Laban once again focused his gaze outside. What Ithtar had said was certainly true�" he would last mere minutes at most, especially in his condition. His muscles were bruised and weak. It had been days since food or water had touched his lips. The sun would bake his skin the moment the stepped into its rays. Then the creatures of the Outland, both seen and unseen, would clean his bones until they shone white. Leaving the cave would be nothing short of suicide. Yet, was life as a War’ack any better? Laban thought to himself. Was such a life, no better�"worse, even�"than that of the basest of animals, really worth sparing? He tried to imagine it. He could live a long life. He would be protected. He would no longer need to fear the War’acks. He wouldn’t fear anyone. He would learn valuable skills from their many years on the Outland.

Laban realized that his desire to stay alive was very human, but also very selfish at the core of it. His life could not be valued more than his own moral code, more than all the things his mother had taught him. A faint glimmer of hope passed through him. The odds were against him, but he wondered silently if there weren’t search parties roaming the Outland, searching for their lost hunters. The hope was faint, and vanished in an instant, but it was enough to send a pulse of adrenaline surging through him. His heart began beating with sudden vigor. His limbs found their strength, and Laban stood on his feet. He pushed forward, sprinting with all his might into the dusty unknown.

*****

He opened his eyes. Everything was a blur. Sand filled his mouth and nostrils. He tried to move, but the most he could do was run his fingers through the dust. Dark shadows moved in front of him. Voices above him muttered incoherently. The War’ack’s must have caught up to him…

“I think he’s still alive!” one of the voices exclaimed.

“Impossible,” said another.

Laban felt a leather glove on his face.

“He’s still breathing!” a voice said. “Get him onto the transport!”

Laban was lifted off the ground, and laid onto a bed of dented metal.

Someone placed a mask over his face. Laban could feel the cool flow of oxygen, which he gulped at hungrily. It soothed his burning lungs. His surroundings began to take shape. He was on his back, staring up at the dirty blue sky. He had been brought aboard some sort of hovercraft, the sort that hunters and warriors often used to quickly cover long distances in the Outland. A man in a gas mask was looking back down at him. Another sat at the helm. He primed the engines, and the hovercraft shot forward. The desert wind rustled their hair as they put a safe distance between themselves and the War’ack hideout. A third passenger knelt at Laban’s side, handling his stump wrist.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you patched up,” the man said. He pulled out a small first aid kit from a stowage compartment. After a few injections and some fresh bandages, the flow of blood began to show signs of stopping. The pain began to subside, too, but only barely. It was at least tolerable now.

Laban realized that he recognized the men that had come to save them. They were members of their same camp.

“Are you Laban?” one of the men asked. “The one that went missing?”

Laban nodded weakly.

“There… there was another man in your party, wasn’t there?”

“Torreck,” Laban coughed in response.

“Where is he? Is he close?” the man asked.

“He’s… gone,” Laban hesitated to say.

The man’s face drooped.
“Did you know him?” asked Laban.

“He was my cousin.”

The weight of Torreck’s death began to fall, and Laban felt the whole of it land squarely on his shoulders. He hadn’t been the one to hold the blade that killed him, but he may as well have. If only he had let go of that stupid rock...

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Laban muttered.

The wind was filled with a palpably awkward silence.

“Here, drink this.” One of the men handed Laban a canteen of fresh water. Once his parched throat had been quenched, he asked “How did you find me?”

“The War’ack are ruthless, but oftentimes careless,” one of them replied. “Master Torreck had a communicator with him. I guess they didn’t find it when they searched the both of you. We managed to pinpoint your location from his distress call before the signal finally disappeared. We sent a party to rescue you, but… once we realized where you were…”

“We didn’t dare march into a War’ack fortress,” the other man finished his sentence. “There were some of us that wanted to go in anyway�" our boys have enough firepower to take on more than a few War’acks. But the Elders advised against it. We could have lost a lot of men, and we knew that you and Torreck were more than likely beyond saving by then. It’s not that we didn’t think you were worth�"”

“I understand,” Laban said.

He did, really. If he had been on the other side of the situation, he doubted he would have wasted lives and resources to save two lost hunters.

“It’s a miracle that we even found you,” one man said. “Our scanners picked up some lifeform signatures, so we started tracking it.”

“It’s an even bigger miracle that you got out of there at all,” the other added. “Especially with such, well... I don’t want to say minor injuries. But you can’t imagine the things a War’ack would do to a person.”

“Yes. I can,” Laban said.

“Yeah… I guess you could.”

The rest of the ride was silent, or at least Laban was. His rescuers joked amongst themselves, almost as if nothing had happened. He didn’t blame them, but he would have preferred silence.

Laban couldn’t hear what they were talking about over the sound of the wind. He tried to close his eyes and sleep, but the images of the bloodthirsty War’ack and the flash of Ithtar’s blade were forever burned into his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to shake them. His hand quivered and his head felt dizzy. Perhaps that was just from the blood he lost, but perhaps at least some of it was still from fear. He knew that the Outland was a dangerous place. He had heard about the War’ack. He had experienced what they could do when he was just a boy. He had been scared before. But for the first time he felt unprotected, like a soldier without his shield. No matter where he was, he always had Them, the heavenly beings, to help him, to help his family. His family was gone now. He had just watched his friend (or closest thing he had to one) die right in front of him. He had been beaten, bruised, and maimed by a terrorist and a monster. More than that, he had lost his seer-stone. Laban looked up into the sky. The heavens suddenly seemed even more distant than ever.