CHAPTER 6

The sound of ringing bells echoed through his dreams, surrounding him, yet coming from seemingly nowhere at all. He pried open his tired eyelids. He saw the bright sunlight breaking through the coarse weave of the fabric that covered him. The dreams faded, slipping quickly out of his memory and into oblivion. But the chiming bells remained. He sat up and looked around. The fog over his mind began to lift. He was at home. If home, at least, was the place where he slept. Rows of cots stretched up and down the length of the cramped hut. They were all empty.

It had taken nearly four months before the nurses had let Laban free from the sick tent. His muscles had grown weak, his skin pale. What little had remained of his spirit after his encounter in the War’ack caves had been leached out of him, wrung as dry as the earth. He was now a broken vessel. He very much doubted he could ever be filled again.

Kol, though Laban could never call him a friend, was the only person that had bothered to talk to Laban since the incident�"aside from the nurses in the sick tents, of course. But all they ever said to him was “how are you feeling?” Because it was easier than actually answering the question truthfully, Laban always responded with “fine”. Those words had been the extent of his conversation. They didn’t even have any meaning to him anymore.

Kol was gone now, so the number of conversations Laban had on a daily basis had again been reduced to zero. Kol was already out with the hunting parties again, but since that was usually a job that required two hands, Laban was not.

The bells continued to ring out their song in the distance. Laban fell back onto his pillow. It deflated under the weight of his head with a soft flump. This wasn’t the first time that the others had left without waking him. Everyone else would get up, usually before dawn, to begin their work. Since Laban didn’t have any work, they just stopped bothering to wake him. So, he slept in. Honestly, he was surprised that he was able to sleep through their daily commotion as well as he did. They didn’t try to wake him, but they certainly didn’t make any effort to be quiet.

Today was strange, though. The distant tinkling of the bells told him that today was the Sabbath. Everyone�"well, most everyone�"would be at the town center, listening to the Elders and their preaching. Since he had been back, the others had always woken him to participate in the Sabbath celebrations. Laban never really participated so much as stood in the back and very quietly waited for the whole show to be over; he couldn’t really hear the Elders’ preaching from all the way in the back anyway, and half the time they were reading from ancient texts written in a language he didn’t understand. He wondered if anyone at all in the crowd could understand it.

The bells stopped. The preaching would begin soon. The entire city of Ura-chan would be as deserted as a ghost town, except for the very town center, which would be more crowded than the busiest metropolis�"exactly where he didn’t want to be.

He sat up again, throwing the thin sheets off his lap. He set his bare feet down on the cold floor. Bits of sand, tracked in by careless boots, felt coarse and grainy between the soles of his feet and the battered slabs of old wood. He lazily slipped some sandals onto his feet, in no real rush to get anywhere.

The distant ringing began again when he stepped out the door into the empty street, this time accompanied by the melodic sound of singing voices. The hymns were actually one of the few things that Laban enjoyed about the Sabbath. Even in the midst of his loneliness, the music had helped him find solace. He felt a togetherness with Those Above as he sang, even though he had no talent. Music had a funny way of doing that. He felt a tiny twinge of guilt at having missed it today.

The Sabbath was something that was sacred to every Malkuth. It must have been a part of their traditions from before the War�"even his old tribe had always observed the holy Seventh Day. On most days, they would walk. Their clan would wander across the Outland, sometimes towards a specific destination, sometimes not. They only ate when they found food, only stopped when they found shelter. The Seventh Day was always different, though, Laban remembered. Even when he was a kid, he remembered looking forward to that day. Not just because they wouldn’t do any walking that day, but because the Elders would sit down with them and tell them stories or ancient myths, older than the desert sands, or older, they said, than the silver moon or the burning sun. There were stories about the War and noble knights and their brave followers that they led into battle, fending off the conquering Territe armies. Even though the Territes’ outnumbered their own a thousand to one, it was their faith in Those Above who had given them the strength to win. He remembered one story in particular about a soldier who had been lost in the wilderness, but had been saved from starvation and thirst by the blessings of Those Above, who caused the birds and animals to bring him food and lead him back to safety. Other myths told of miracles just as fantastic or more. Laban had heard a few of these legends repeated here at Ura-chan, but most were new.

One legend that he still hadn’t heard, however, was the story of Klito. He had only heard the name once, and that was from the mouth of Torreck, deep in the War’ack prison. It had never been mentioned in the stories of his old clan. Laban wondered if it was something that was buried deep in the libraries of the Elders of Ura-chan, so old that it had been lost to time, becoming nothing more than a tiny footnote on the crowded pages of history.

But even the War’acks had heard tell of the name Klito. They were scared of it. That was what confused him. Some of the others said that the War’acks held to their own little myths and legends, but Ithtar didn’t seem like the sort of man that would be inclined to believe in that sort of thing�"or really anything at all besides murder. Probably all of their myths revolved around pillaging some far-off town and returning home to their caves with the spoils. In the War’ack mythology, Ithtar was god, and none else.

Laban’s thoughts churned, tumbling over each other in a pattern no more methodical than his mindless ambling through the deserted streets of Ura-chan. He dragged his feet through the dusty avenues, not really caring where he ended up nor making any conscious decision as to which way to turn. Like a leaf on the wind, he blew where the current listed.

The pealing of the bells grew softer as he wandered. Now their sweet music was nothing but a whispered dissonance, bouncing between the walls of a forgotten alleyway, filled with old, empty crates.

The music began to mix with other sounds�" strange sounds that did not match with the familiar rhythm of the song. Laban was suddenly aware of the voices coming from somewhere aways off. They were close. He kicked aside an old metal crate that had apparently held ammunition at one point and moved through the alley. He emerged onto a street lined with old, crumbling houses. Most of them were littered and overflowing with garbage, and in such a state of disrepair that it looked like any one of them might topple over at any moment. The majority of the city looked very much the same way, but this part of the town was particularly run-down. Laban guessed that it was one of many districts in Ura-chan that remained uninhabited. He had more free time on his hands (well… hand) now than was probably good for him, and so he had already stumbled upon a few such lonely sections of the town. There were always a few squatters or vagrants lurking somewhere in the shadows, keen on staying hidden. Places like these were ideal for those types to get up to their who-knows-what. But this street seemed empty, so he continued on.

Laban stood still in the middle of the street. He kept his ears open for the slightest sound. A wheezing laugh suddenly pierced the air, slicing through the music like the edge of a knife. Laban started down the street towards the source. He could hear voices, at least three, coming from an old cottage tucked away from prying eyes. Laban walked towards it with heavy feet; he knew that most of the people that chose to spend their time in these sorts of places weren’t the kindest, so he made sure to create enough noise to be heard, but not so much or so little as to make them think he was coming for them. With any luck, they would stay in their hole and let Laban pass by on his way.

As he neared the cottage, the conversations suddenly lowered to a whisper. The front door flew open, and a young man stumbled out. The look on his face as he picked himself up out of the dirt told Laban that it was probably not his choice to have ended up out here on the street. He immediately noticed that the boy was young�"probably two to three years younger than himself. He looked frightened, but the fear in his eyes immediately left when he saw Laban.

Laban smiled faintly at the boy, but did not shorten his stride. He kept his head low and continued walking.

“It’s not them!” The boy rapped on the door of the cottage, begging to be let back in. The door opened just wide enough for a hand to reach through and tug the boy back inside, then closed again in an instant. Laban heard the sound of a deadbolt being slid into place.

“Oy!” a voice called from behind.

Laban turned. A tall, thin man with a ratty mop of blond hair was leaning out the window.

“Yeah?” Laban said. The man frantically motioned for Laban to come. His glance darted nervously down either end of the road, then he vanished back through the window.

Laban knew that he ought to have done the sensible thing to simply keep walking and ignore whatever mischief was going on inside that cottage. His curiosity, however got the better of him. Besides, he didn’t have much else to do.

Laban could hear nervous chatter coming from behind the door. The locks slid away as soon as he stepped onto the porch. A tiny crack opened up between the wood of the door and its frame.

“What’s your name?” someone asked through the gap.

“Er… Laban.”

The door slammed shut. There was another moment of whispers bouncing back and forth, then the door flew open. The man from the window stood in the doorway. He glanced down the road again before grabbing Laban by the wrist and jerked him inside. He nearly tripped over his feet as he stumbled forward into the dimly-lit room.

The man slammed the door behind him, replacing the several locks that held it closed. For added measure, he jammed a rickety chair under the handle, but the wood looked so rotten that it probably wouldn’t keep any reasonably angry man from entering.

There were three other people in the room. The boy took the chair next to a thick, bald man whose sarcastic smirk looked to be a permanent fixture of his face. Laban could only just make out their faces in the dim light that leaked through the narrow gaps between the slats of wood covering the windows.

“I… I don’t have any money…” Laban stammered, having a guess at their intentions.

“Hey, there, Laban!” the bald man said with a cackle. “Long time no see!”

“Sorry, do I know you?” Laban asked.

“Sure you know me! Do you not remember? All I did was save your life. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Laban realized that he must have been one of the hunters that had pulled him out of the desert.

“You were the hovercraft pilot,” Laban said.

“The very same. Hey, kid. Get my friend here a chair, would ya?”

The boy stood up and grabbed another chair from the corner. He dusted off the seat before placing it in the circle with the others. Laban sat down.

“My name is Nimrod,” said the bald man. He extended his left hand. Laban extended his own before realizing his foolishness. Nimrod flew into a fit of laughter.

“Guess you can’t shake that one!” he chuckled, apparently very pleased with himself at having successfully humiliated Laban for his injury.  

“What happened to your hand?” the doorman asked, once Nimrod’s laughter had quieted down enough.

“It was the War’acks,” Nimrod interjected before Laban could answer. “You should’a seen the kid after we picked him up. He was half-buried in the sand when we found him. He was black and bruised all over. Hell, I don’t think I would have recognized ya, kid, if it weren’t for the stump.” He chuckled softly to himself again. “I guess that means you’re the only one who’s never seen a War’ack, eh, Jethro?”

Nimrod gave the boy a punch in the arm. Judging by the look on Jethro’s face, the blow was a bit more forceful than playful.

“Hey, if the Elders hadn’t stuck me in the gardens, I wouldn’t be able to get you guys the fertilizers you need,” Jethro said.

“Eh, screw the Elders, kid… hey, Bit, hand me another stick, would ya?” Nimrod said.

The doorman, or Bit, reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a thin roll of something wrapped in paper, about two inches long. He handed it to Nimrod along with a book of matches. Nimrod’s sausage fingers fumbled with the fragile matches before he finally managed to strike one and light the tip of the roll. He placed the other end between his lips and took a long drag. The burning tip glowed brightly. Nimrod exhaled, blowing flurries of white smoke through his nostrils.

“What is that?” Laban asked.

“What, you don’t know?” Nimrod said. Laban shook his head.

“We call it Loose. Helps us unwind on days that we don’t have to work,” Nimrod explained. “Bid here’s our cook.”

“Cook?”

“Damn, kid. You really don’t know anything, do you? He’s a cook. You know. He… cooks.”

Laban shrugged.

“I make drugs is what he means,” said Bit. He reached back into the pouch and pulled out another roll.

“This one’s called Rush. It’s popular with the hunters. Gives them a boost of extra energy when they need it.”

“Take it, kid,” Nimrod said. “Use it on your next trip to the Outland. Maybe you’ll be able to keep your other hand from the War’acks this time.”

“I’m… not going back to the Outland,” Laban said. “I’m not exactly a hunter anymore. At least I don’t think I am.”

“What? Then what the hell have you been doing since we picked you up?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“What, did the Elders forget about you?”

“No. I mean… no. It’s just that they said I need some more time to rest. They let me out of the sick tent, but I guess I need more time.”
“Yeah, whatever kid,” said Nimrod. “Sitting around all day would bore me to death. You gotta get some excitement in your life. Else that ain’t no life worth living.”
“It’s… alright,” Laban shrugged. “I don’t really mind the time alone. It’s nice.”

“Well, tell you what I would do if I had to spend one more day doing nothing. If I were you, I’d march right up to the Elders, smack them across the face a few times, and tell ‘em to let me hunt again. Human beings ain’t meant to lie around all day doing nothing. Makes ‘em weak. The Malkuth are not weak.”

If one thing in the world was certain, it would be that Laban would never have been likely to do anything of the sort that Nimrod was. He wasn’t overly fond of the Elders of Ura-chan after their little… conversation, but even if he were, Laban very much doubted that he would have made any request for work, let alone such a forceful one. But he had to admit that having all his time more or less completely to himself was nice only to a point. Sometimes, there is such a thing as too much time to think.

On his loneliest days, his wandering daydreams always brought him back to the cold and damp of the caves, where the ghost of Torreck and the dead War’acks haunted him. Sometimes he would feel cold eyes staring at him from behind. He was constantly looking back over his shoulder, but there was never anyone there. Now he would be startled by the smallest things, like a shadow flickering in the corner of his eye. His nerves would be set so on edge that he wouldn’t be able to calm himself for hours. It was on days like that that he spent most of his time around the town forums just to be near to other humans. He only occasionally wandered off when he needed some quiet. Even if he felt it, he was rarely truly alone. But the loneliness wasn’t the worst part�"it was the lack of control.

When he was a kid�"really a kid, not like what everyone called him�"he had nothing. They rarely had enough food and water to go around and certainly never a roof over their head. When he was hungry or tired or feeling particularly afraid of the monsters lurking in the dark, he always had his mother. When he was taken from her, his world was shattered. But he put the pieces back together with the knowledge that wherever she was, she was safe now. The sacred stone that she had given him was not only a reminder of her, but of Those Above and where his faith ought to lie in dark times. He had nothing, but at least he felt his life was in his own hands.

That had changed in the caves. Even now, back in the relative safety of the city, he had become an outcast. He could have been a hunter�"a damn good one, too, given enough time. But now he was nothing but a cripple. Those who thought they were doing him a favor by “letting him rest,” Laban realized, were really the ones doing the most harm.

Of course, this was not anything that Laban would have admitted to someone like Nimrod.

“Ahh,” sighed Nimrod, leaning back in his chair. The wood groaned under his weight. Laban was surprised that the whole thing hadn’t been reduced to splinters by now. “This stuff is different. New recipe?”

“Let’s just say I added a secret ingredient,” Bit replied.

“Hm. I hope it’s nothing too strong. I’ve still gotta go to work in the morning.”

“Don’t worry, old man. You’ll be fine. I know how to cook.”

Nimrod took one last drag on the roll before throwing the smouldering nub on the ground and stomping it out under his boot heel.

“So, Laban.” Nimrod’s words came out even more slurred and mumbled than before. “Tell me some stories. You ever score anything big on your hunts?”

“Well, I’ve only been out the once, so…” Laban said.

“What? You’re killing me, kid. How have you only been out once? Have you just been sitting around eating dirt for all twelve years of your life?”

“I’m seventeen.”

Jethro stifled a laugh, but tried to turn it into a cough.

“Yeah… whatever kid,” said Nimrod. “Still no excuse. I think I was six years old when my dad first took me into the Outland. He handed me a knife… I still got it. Hunt with it every day. Anyway, we spent that whole day trying to track down this sand boar. Once we finally caught up to it, I got it right in the throat.”

He imitated a violent stabbing motion with his fist.

“Blood everywhere. It was pretty gnarly stuff. My dad made me drag the whole thing back to the camp. Skinned it myself. See? That’s what a proper hunter is supposed to be. Not gettin’ caught by War’acks your first day on the job. You know, it’s like I was telling you guys. That whole clan of theirs that we picked up, they’re all pretty useless aren’t they? I’ve had to hunt with a couple of ‘em so far, and they’re all about the same level of stupid. I mean… I don’t mean you, Laban, but I’m surprised that you lot were all still alive by the time we found ‘em.”
Laban stood up with so much force that his chair was knocked back and toppled to the ground. His fist clenched so tightly he could feel the hot blood pulsing through it. His weight wasn’t much, but he pulled back and threw every ounce of it into Nimrod’s jaw. His head snapped to one side. The wooden chair cracked and fell apart underneath him.

Dazed and slightly damaged, Nimrod scrambled to his feet. He snarled deep in his throat. He gripped the collar of Laban’s tunic in his meaty fists and lifted his feet clean off the ground. He charged forward like an angry bull, using Laban as a battering ram to break clean through the window.

Laban was weightless for only a moment, suspended in the air amid the twinkling shards of glass. He landed hard on on the porch outside, glass falling all around him like hailstones. Laban picked himself up and dusted himself off, ignoring the shouts of profanities coming from inside the cottage. He walked away towards the sound of the chiming bells, signaling the end of the day’s ceremonies.

Warm trickles of blood dripped off his knuckles. Laban realized that he had probably hurt himself more than he could have hurt Nimrod. But it wasn’t bad. With little a struggle and some help from his teeth, he managed to wrap a bandage around his wounds and continue on his way.