CHAPTER 5

The Malkuth lived in poverty. There were no exceptions. There were no glistening cities, no paradisiacal oases to serve as refuge from the storm. The Territe overlords, whoever or whatever they were, made sure of that. Only they were privy to such luxuries. At least, that’s what the stories said. As far as Laban knew, no one had ever been close enough to the borders of Terraam to actually know what it looked like. But they imagined that it was beautiful. Beautiful and horrible at the same time.

What little these people had�"weapons, equipment, tools�" had been scavenged out of the sand, relics of a war years past. The clans were rarely able stay in one spot long enough to build anything permanent. Something as glamorous as a hospital was unheard of. So, Laban found himself and his wounds being tended to beneath the roof of a threadbare old tent.

The whole thing smelled rancid. It may have been the unpleasant mix of chemicals and medicines that permeated the air and bit at his nostrils, but there was something else about the tent that just smelled sick. There were a few other patients there, sprawled out on the ground or on the few cots the clan could spare, others just had blankets between them and the stony floor.

None of these “nurses”, Laban was sure, had received any sort of training. All they knew was what had been gleaned off the instructions from scavenged first-aid kits or bottles of antibiotics.

Apparently it was time for another round. One nurse, who looked like he would make a better soldier than a physician, fidgeted with the bloody bandages around Laban’s stump wrist while another handed him a vial of foul-smelling liquid. He wished he could have a swig of water to help wash it down, but unfortunately that was almost as rare a commodity as the medicines he was taking.

If the medicines were working, Laban couldn’t tell. It certainly didn’t stop any swelling, that was for sure. His forearm looked like the head of a bloated squid. He only dared look when the bandages were on, though. He didn’t want to see the scar that Ithtar had left him.

It was a strange thing, looking down at your wrist and not seeing a hand. It took some getting used to. He was still getting used to it, even after six days in this foul tent. He kept finding himself reaching for something, but then his fingers would fail to wrap themselves around it�" fingers which weren’t actually there, but seemed like they should be.

One of the nurses stabbed a needle into the end of his wrist. He recoiled in pain. Pain. That was… good. At least feeling had begun to return to his limb. That meant it was healing, right? The nurse squeezed some thick, bluish serum from the syringe into his stump. A calming sort of sensation began to wash over him. After a few minutes, the swelling had gone down noticeably.

Another nurse shone a bright light in his eyes, moving it back and forth.

“Well, I expect that your concussion is recovering fairly well,” the nurse said. “But it may be a while before the symptoms are completely gone. I can tell your head took some pretty nasty hits back in that cave. I’ve seen worse, but it’s best to get as much rest as you can.”

The nurses packed all their things and moved on to the next patient.

“Well, I certainly don’t envy you, brother,” said another of the patients, sitting on a cot beside him, looking quite uncomfortable. He was shirtless, revealing a network of pustulous boils and irritating-looking burns all across his back and arms. He gingerly rubbed a sticky yellow ointment over them. His hair was long and matted, almost dreadlocked, and a rough beard covered his face.

“Although, I suppose you could say the same thing about my own predicament,” the man continued. His voice came out in a smooth, foreign-sounding accent.

“What happened to you?” Laban asked, though he realized after he said it that he probably ought to have asked a bit more graciously. The man chuckled.

“Oh, I spent a bit too long out in the sun is all. Well, more than a bit. The curse of being a hunter, I suppose. You don’t get to spend as much time under this wonderful shield as you’d like.”

“I’m a hunter too. Or I was. Or… at least I was going to be? I don’t know,” replied Laban.

“Oh, is that so? I hate to ask how you were parted from your left hand, then.”

“War’acks,” he replied.

The man’s eyes grew wide.

“Well, then you’re lucky that’s all they took from you, brother.”

“So everyone keeps telling me…”

“My name’s Kol, by the way,” the man said, extending his hand. Laban shook it.

“Laban.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Laban. Although, I wish it were under better circumstances. At least we can both enjoy being fed endless streams of unknown liquids together. And hope we both get to see the outside of this tent eventually...”

The way he said that last sentence felt lighthearted, but it was no joke, Laban knew. Already he had seen five bodies, by his count, carried out of the tent under a sheet. Was it only a matter of time before he joined them? An infection wouldn’t take long to overcome him, especially in these conditions. He could already feel the sickness seeping into his blood, beginning to gnaw at the exposed and torn ends of muscle, eating away his severed nerve endings and blood vessels… at least he thought he could feel it. It could just be the medication, amplifying his anxiety. Or maybe his mind had begun to go stir-crazy after spending so many days in confinement. Laban had been so used to being on the move�" movement had been constant all his life�" that sitting still made his feet itch for some exercise.

“You must be a new face around here,” Kol said. “I don’t think I’ve run into you before.”

“Yeah…” Laban said. “My old clan got picked up about a week ago.”

“Ah, you were with them, were you? I suppose I should thank you then.”

“Why’s that?”
“Your people brought us some much-needed manpower. Not mention the priceless knowledge your elders have of the outlands to the south.”

“I… I didn’t really know where we were. I just followed where the elders took us.”

“Well, they took you to the right place. Ura-chan is the only oasis within a thousand miles of here.”

“We wandered for years with no success. We didn’t even know if there were other clans still out there. The elders had faith that there were. So we followed them. In the end, though, I think we found you by chance.”

“Nay,” said Kol. “I’ve spent as many years trying to tame the outland as you’ve been walking. There’s no such thing as chance. T’was Those Above who brought you here.”

“Yeah, well, Those Above didn’t save my hand from getting chopped off. They didn’t save Torreck from dying. They didn’t protect my family...”

Laban’s right hand wandered down to his belt, where the empty cloth pouch still hung.

Kol’s face morphed into something sad, but understanding. His brow furrowed and his eyes drooped.

“The desert takes its toll on all of us. Unfortunately, some of us seem to suffer more than others, and we can’t help but ask the question why.”

He paused for a moment, trying to get as comfortable as he could while lying on his stomach.

“But do you know what I think, brother? That question is a cancer. Once it knocks, if you open your door to it and bring it inside, that’s the moment it comes in and takes a seat. Then you quickly find that it’s made itself comfortable, and at that point… well, then there’s no way you can get it to leave.”

“I’ll… take that into account.”

“I hope you will, brother�" for your own sake. The Shadow Man feeds off of our fear. And our fear feeds off doubt. The more whys you feed your doubt, the fatter the Shadow Man becomes.”

The Shadow Man. Laban had actually met him, looked into his bloodthirsty eyes. That is, if what Ithtar had said was to be believed. He still hadn’t decided.

It would be easy enough, Laban thought, for someone with as much power as he held to spread rumors about his evil deeds. He wouldn’t even have to do it personally; those of his victims he chose to spare, such as himself, would spread the stories for him�" and spread they did. It wouldn’t take long before the accounts of his treachery morphed into something… supernatural. Certainly no human man would commit such crimes as Ithtar, the War’ack king. It was better, easier, to think of him as something demonic, spat out from the depths of Hell, as he himself had so vividly put it. Even in Laban’s mind, the memories of what had happened in the cave began to cover themselves in shadow. They left scars in the backs of his eyes, indelible and irremovable as the ones on his stump wrist. But already they’ve turned into something Laban realized they weren’t. His mind tried to shove them out, but the best it could do was hide them under a bloody sheet.

“There is no curse,” he concluded, though he didn’t mean to mutter it out loud.

“Eh?” Kol replied.

“I’ve met the War’acks. I’ve seen their king. He is the Shadow Man. We’ve just all chosen to forget what he looks like. We’ve turned him into something that he isn’t.”

One of the nurses shot him a glance from across the room. Laban was surprised at that. What would she know, Laban thought. She’s probably never even left the camp. She doesn’t know what the War’acks can do.

“You think you’re the only one who’s seen a War’ack, brother?” Kol’s voice was grave. “You’re not. Most of us older hunters have. I’ve lost a lot of brothers to those monsters. I know the War’ack. But you’d be a fool to think the War’ack are capable of committing half the evils that the Shadow Man has accomplished.”

“You’ve actually seen him, then?” Laban asked.

“He’s not exactly something one can see,” Kol replied. “Why else do you think we call him the Shadow Man?”

“So how do you know he’s even real?”

“How do you know that Those Above are real?”

“I... don’t know.”

Kol’s face returned to looking sympathetic.

“Don’t lose hope, Laban,” he said. “I pray that someday you’ll be able to forget all this and find your way back to the light.”

“There’s no light here,” Laban said. Any trace of hope that had been there vanished completely from his voice. “Not in this accursed desert.”

The thin flaps of the tent opened, and a man and a woman stepped inside. Their robes were long, plain and black, and the edges skirted the floor. Their hair and faces were much neater than the ordinary citizen of Ura-chan. They looked around for only a moment before noticing Laban on his cot.

“Laban?” the woman asked.

“Yeah?” he replied. “Who wants to know?”

“I am Lady Nairaiah. This is Master Samalech. How are you recovering?”

“I’m… recovering,” Laban replied.

“Very good,” said Lady Nairaiah, smiling. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Walk? Sure. Am I going somewhere?”

“Follow us,” Nairaiah said. “The Elders wish to speak with you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Laban said. “But you don’t exactly look… well, old enough to be called elders.”

“No,” Nairaiah said. “We are merely students�"disciples. Our duty is to ensure that the ancient knowledge of our forebears is not lost.”

“So what do the Elders want with me?” Laban asked

“It is customary to… report any incidents such as you had to the Elders of the clan,” said Samalech. “It won’t be long, and I can assure you it will be very painless,” he laughed kindly.

The two helped him to his feet. He used a bent stick as a crutch under his right arm. It had taken some convincing, but eventually the nurses allowed Laban to be taken out from under their supervision, at least for the short few moments Samalech had promised.

They led Laban through the winding corridors and alleyways of the tightly-packed village. It was slow moving, since Laban had to lean heavily on his cane. Nairaiah and Samalech glided smoothly on their feet, seeming to float across the sand as fluidly as the wind across the desert.

Hastily constructed shacks, threadbare tents, and makeshift houses dotted their path. The others had told him that their village was built on the remnants of an old city. There were the remains of some brick structures or centuries-old masonry, but no more than a few walls here and there served as evidence of the great city that was.

They passed beneath a tattered awning, spanning the narrow gap between two crumbling brick walls. Looking up, Laban could see the blue sky through its many holes. The sky seemed to shimmer and shake like the surface of water�" evidence of the powerful shield generator that protected their settlement from the harsh rays of the sun and toxic atmosphere.

“Have you ever been to this part of the settlement?” Samalech asked as they neared the edge of the shield’s dome.

“No,” Laban replied. “I had no idea that it even stretched out this far. The city is so much bigger than I thought.”

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Nairiah said. “Ura-chan has grown much in recent years. Our efforts to rescue other villages have not been in vain.”

“So, where are you taking me?” Laban asked.

“Quite near here is the abode of the elders of our tribe,” Samalech replied. “Do you happen to know why this clan set up base in this spot?”

“There was a town here, once. But that was a long time ago.”

“Yes. Malkuth was a great nation at one time… I’m sure you’ve heard stories. We were not always refugees, always on the run. Until�"”

“Until the Territes destroyed us,” Laban interrupted.

Lady Nairaiah smiled softly. Her eyes reflected genuine kindness, but it was the sort of smile one gives when you have said something wrong, but they are too kind to admit it.

“That’s what Master Torreck told you, isn’t it?” Samalech said. “I believe I met him, a few years ago. I’ve been acquainted with most of the old warriors and hunters of our clan. He was… well, I don’t mean any offense by this, but he was a lot like you. And like a lot of people in Ura-chan. They blame the Territes for our misfortune. But I think we shouldn’t be so quick to point blame in one direction or another. Oftentimes to find the source of our suffering we need look no further than within ourselves. Then, sometimes there isn’t anyone to blame besides the curse of our own mortality.”

Laban wasn’t entirely sure what that was supposed to mean. The Elders and the religious teachers, even in his old tribe, had always spoken in cryptic riddles like this. Of course, back then he had his mother to help sort things out. She had always been able to make sense of the world around them. These… monks or whatever they called themselves seemed so far removed from reality, perched up in their lofty monasteries, always keeping their noses buried in old books instead of looking at the world happening around them, that they had forgotten how to be human. They had booksmarts, sure, but as far as actual experience went, he had them beat. They didn’t know�"couldn’t know�"what it was really like to be on the Outland.

Laban realized that his fists were clenched. He had been getting angry. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

This had kept happening. Even the slightest agitation would send his mind careening downward into a dark, jagged abyss, where only anger and hatred could exist. His footing only slipped more and more the deeper hit went. He had to be careful to catch himself before it got to be too late, or he feared he would enter such a dark place that he would never have any hope of climbing out. Every moment was like reliving his plummet into the War’ack’s dungeon. Always falling, but never landing...

“You’re talking about the Shadow Man,” said Laban, returning to the conversation.

Samalech smiled. “Perhaps.”

Typical. Still as vague as ever. He couldn’t even get a straight answer from them.

“We have arrived,” Nairaiah said.

They stopped at a wide, squat building�" much larger and more spacious than any building Laban had ever seen. It was one of few that was still made nearly entirely of stone, although a few loose tarps had to cover holes in the walls and domed roof, and extensive repairs had obviously been done on the exterior. It was separated from the rest of the village by quite a distance�" it sat alone in the sand, nearly brushing against the invisible wall of the deflector shield. The building was surrounded by several large marble columns, all broken off at the top. They must have supported the roof of some massive structure at some point, but it had since been reduced to ruin. Now the columns only served to create a boundary around a small courtyard outside the entryway to the building. An altar of gold sat in the center of the courtyard, quietly spewing whirls of sweet-smelling smoke. Three black-robed men stood huddled around it. Their eyes were closed and heads lowered, as if engaged in the act of prayer. These must be more disciples.

“This is all that remains of the Tabernacle of Ura-chan,” explained Nairaiah. “ These pillars once surrounded the inner courtyard�"the final gate before entering the Sanctum of the Tabernacle. Sadly, the Sanctum is nothing but rubble now. It is only one of many casualties of the Great War…”

“The altar of incense was rescued from the sanctum before Ura-chan was overrun,” said Samalech. “It remained safely hidden for more than two decades before the Elders felt it was safe enough to openly worship once again. This structure is the Library of the Elders. Here was once contained the history of Malkuth reaching back to the days before the War. It is all that survived, but it was desecrated by the War. Sadly, it was used as a stable for cattle until it could finally be cleansed and reopened. By then, alas, it was far too late to save much of the priceless knowledge that it had contained.”

Laban hadn’t expected a history lesson, nor had he hoped for one. Still, the story seemed sad, so Laban sympathized as far as he could; their tribe had been nomads, so their only attachment had been their fellow men, and never possessed a solid building to call home, much less mourned over the loss of one.

“Shall we enter?” Samalech said, pulling aside the veil over the entrance and motioning them through the open doorway.

Laban stepped inside. The room was wide and circular, lit only by a few candles and the light pouring in through the entrance. The space was so wide and empty that these feeble lights had difficulty illuminating everything. Antique wooden bookshelves, mostly empty, lined the walls. Much of the space on the shelves was filled with old electronic hard-disks, each one probably containing an entire library of information themselves. There were, however, a few scattered scrolls, manuscripts, or leather-bound books, written or typed on actual paper. The shelves were interrupted by doorways evenly spaced along the walls. Laban’s eyes slowly wound their way upward to the ceiling. The inside of the dome was painted in faded colors; large parts of the fresco were missing, however, where the paint had chipped away. It showed an image of the sun at the very pinnacle, eclipsed by the dark moon. From the sun extended seven long, almost ghoulish arms that ended in seven-fingered hands. The hands carried fruit, plants, books, or even humans in their palms, apparently delivering them to the crowds of people that lined the base of the dome, all kneeling and raising their arms in the act of praising the heavenly beings.

Samalech opened one door and silently motioned for Laban to enter.

A roughly semi-circular row of wooden desks, ornately carved, was positioned at the center of the room, behind which sat seven old men. Light streamed through several stained glass windows, which scattered twinkling shapes of brilliant color that danced around the room and over their faces.

“We present to you Laban, as you requested, my masters,” Nairaiah said. She and Samalech bowed low. Laban followed suit, though his bow was much less graceful. He felt silly doing it.

“Thank you,” one of the Elders stated. He dismissed the two disciples with a wave of his hand. They disappeared from the council room, closing the door behind them.

“Mister… Laban, is it?” another of the Elders spoke. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, sir,” he replied. “They only told me it was something of a report.”

“Yes… something like that,” the Elder replied. He smiled, but Laban noticed that he lacked the same kindness in his eyes that he had seen in Nairaiah’s.

“We only want to ask a few questions, and then you can be off. Is that alright?”

“Fine.”

“Could you tell us what happened?” an Elder asked.

Laban held up the stump of his left arm. All the Elders leaned forward in their seats, squinting to get a better look.

“Is this enough of an explanation?” Laban said simply.

“I’m afraid… not,” one of the Elders said. “Please tell us what happened.”

Laban hesitated. He knew that retelling this story could unleash the black monsters chained in the back of his mind, and then they would begin to feed. There may be no stopping them then. He bit his tongue.

“I�"we�"were out hunting,” Laban said, finally relenting anyway. “I was apprentice to Master Torreck. We were about ten miles northeast of here. We were following… well, I guess a hunch that Torreck had that we might find food and water in a small slot canyon. We did find water, to his credit. We were ambushed by War’acks while we were there. I think you can work out the rest of the story from there.”

“Please, continue… if you can.”

Laban clutched desperately to the last strand of sanity that held him hanging above the black pit of his memory. He let it go. He let himself fall. The blackness swallowed him.

“They tortured us!” he blurted out. The Elders were startled at the sudden burst of anger. “They threw us in a pit. It was dark… full of bones. A man named Samson came and threatened us. But Torreck killed one of them so they left�"”

“He actually killed a War’ack?” an Elder interrupted, sitting forward with sudden interest. “While you were imprisoned?”

“Yeah,” Laban replied. “He did. He broke an old bone against one of their heads. So Samson repaid him with a knife in his leg. Then they left.”

“I don’t understand,” said one, more to his fellow Elders than to Laban. “These are War’acks. They don’t exactly have a reputation for leaving prisoners alive. I didn’t think they would hesitate before they… fed.” His voice began to trail off, suddenly remembering that Laban was still standing in their presence.

“I don’t know,” said Laban. “I guess they had orders. They said they were waiting for their master to arrive… a guy named Ithtar. Torreck told me�"”

A visible stir moved through the row of Elders. Furrowed brows glanced around the room at each other.

“These War’acks belong to Ithtar’s empire?” one Elder asked.

“If Ithtar is moving this far south, perhaps it truly is time to ready our warriors,” said another.

“Waging a war against simple barbarians would be a useless allocation of our valuable resources!” said yet another.

Soon the entire room was in uproar. The orderly line of elegance and sophistication morphed into a blur of grey hair, profanities, and accusing fingers. Laban’s head spun, trying to make sense of the nonsense.

“Our warriors are expertly trained! To fret about an invasion of War’acks would be to�"”

“The people of Ura-chan have forgotten their roots! We are a peaceful people! If we depart from the faith�"”

“But why do we still waste our experienced men on useless expeditions to the deep Outland? Nothing is likely to be discovered�"”

“Enough!” Laban slammed his foot into the ground. Twelve angry eyes snapped to him. He could feel their stares burning into his soul. He let the heat of it boil the blood in his veins.

“I don’t care about your politics. I don’t care about… whatever it is that you do here. All I care about is the fact that my friend is dead.”

“Vengeance is an unclean offering. It is not something accepted by Those Above,” an Elder scolded.

“No. I don’t care about vengeance either,” Laban said. “I just want answers. I want to know why. ”

Laban recalled Kol’s little speech he had given earlier. There were better questions to ask than why. But that was the only one that stuck in his head.

“And so would we. Ask away,” answered one elder. The council began to settle down into their seats.

“I saw Ithtar. After a couple days, he finally showed up. He told us that…” Laban was wary to mention the Shadow Man, a topic that would surely spark another lively “debate”.

“He told us that he was the Shadow Man,” Laban asked. “Is that true?”

The room was on the verge of erupting again. It teetered on the very edge, when the Elder at the center held up his hands, instantly quenching the fire. He leaned back in his seat, and his eyes stared off into the distance.

“The Shadow Man came into existence a thousand millennia ago, born out of the bowels of the Beast Below. He is made of darkness, for there is absolutely no light in him. He moves as fast as a shadow, and is just as silent. He is a miserable creature; the only way he can find pleasure, or at least numb the pain of his eternal torment, is by passing his suffering onto others. And so he spreads it wherever he can.

“His terrible curse spread all across the world. Where once there were lush forests and grassy plains, he left naught but deserts and dust. He comes like a thief in the night, stealing people away, gorging his unstoppable rage on their deaths. His anger alone is enough to topple empires and defeat even the most powerful armies.”

He related the tale as if he had practiced this speech a hundred times, which he probably had.

“Even now,” he continued. “The Shadow Man’s appetite is unrelenting. His curse continues to spread. Without the light of truth to guide them, the minds of men are easily corrupted�"”

“Like the War’acks,” said Laban.

“Yes… like the War’acks,” the Elder agreed. “Though they may not know it, they are puppets of the Darkness.”

“You say that light and truth can defeat him…” Laban said.

“That is correct. As powerful as the Shadow Man may be, the power of Those Above will always be greater. We must have faith.”

“Then why did this happen? If Those Above care so much… if they really are as powerful as you say, then why didn’t they come down to help us? At what point does faith become foolishness? I’ve believed in everything you’ve said for my entire life. I’ve lived the doctrine. I’ve trusted Those Above with my life. When we were threatened by the War’acks, I did not let my faith falter. I defied Ithtar because I believed that They would help me. But They didn’t. If I hadn’t been so stupid… if I had just let go… then Torreck might still be alive.”

The room blurred behind the tears that welled up in his eyes. He turned, forcing the door open and collapsing in a heap on the floor outside. His only audience now were rows of dusty shelves and ancient books. He buried his face in his arms and wept bitterly.