CHAPTER 7

The hooded figures stood as still as statues before the altar of sacred incense. The only movement was the faint muttering of their lips, whispering silent prayers to the heavens.

Laban stood awkwardly on the threshold of the courtyard around the Library. He didn’t want to trespass on such sacred grounds, especially uninvited as he was. He shouldn’t have come at all, he thought to himself. He wrung his fingers for a few more nervous moments before turning to leave.

“Please don’t leave on my account,” a voice called. He wheeled back around. Lady Nairaiah removed her hood, revealing the soft, tender smile beneath. “I apologize. You arrived at a most inopportune time. I’m afraid my fellow disciples and I follow the schedule of prayer most… well, religiously.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, m’lady,” Laban said, offering a weak bow.

“Please. It’s really no trouble at all. Now, one does not walk all the way to the edges of the city just to have a friendly conversation. Come inside! Tell me what you need.”

“Actually,” Laban said. “I would like to request an audience with the Elders.”

“Oh?” Nairaiah’s face fell. “I’m afraid that the Elders aren’t generally open to taking appointments.”

“Then… can I just tell you to give them a message?” boop

“I would most certainly be willing to do that, Master Laban. What would you like me to say?”

“I’d like to put in a request for work. I know that they said they were letting me heal, but it’s been more than a month since I’ve been out of the sick tent. I just feel so… I’d just like to go back to hunting.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you. Will that be all?”

“Yeah, I think so... thanks.”

“Then farewell, Master Laban.” She bowed. “I hope our paths will cross again soon.”

“Oh, yeah. Um… farewell,” Laban replied, bowing in return.

The other disciples finished their prayers. Their cold stares were not hostile, but they told Laban that they weren't used to outsiders coming to the Library. He knew how to take a hint. So he left.

The hike to the edge of town, though long, hadn't been a complete waste. He hadn't actually been able to get in to talk with the Elders personally, but if anyone was going to make something happen, it would be Nairaiah. He trusted her. Which was strange… he thought. He couldn't think of anyone else in Ura-chan that he would honestly trust. His encounter with Nimrod certainly hadn't done anything to help with that. But in some way he couldn’t quite explain Nairaiah reminded him of his own mother…

The cool blanket of dusk had just barely begun to settle over the city. Laban squinted against the orange glare of the dying sunlight. The burning orb flashed intermittently in his eyes as he stepped through the gaps of shade between buildings, which seared colorful blotches of light into his eyes.

This was the time of day that Ura-chan would be transformed from a quiet, rural village into a proper beehive of activity. As the hunters and warriors would come home with the day’s score, the rest of the clan would rush to their aid, working quickly to gather everything into one place to begin work on preservation. Others would cook what they could and hand out rations. Most of this work took place in the Commissary�"a massive complex near the town center that became the industrial heart of the city at mealtimes. Whenever the hunting parties had a particularly good day on the Outland, the villagers could feast.

Laban noticed that only a few of the Commissary’s smokestacks were lit. Today would not be one of those days.

The sweet smell of herbs and cooking meat suddenly awakened Laban’s stomach to the feeling of hunger. He joined the long lines of people that had already begun to congregate in anticipation of the day’s supper. As he waited, he had to be careful not to be pushed aside by some of the more anxious villagers.

Laban was within sight of the food tent when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Kol’s bearded, slightly muddied face smiling back at him. His drooping eyes and sunburned skin betrayed his true tiredness.

“Hullo there, brother,” Kol said. “It’s been far too long since our paths have crossed.”

“Yeah. Well… my path doesn’t really seem to cross anyone’s anymore.”

“That is unfortunate. I’d have expected you to be working again by now.”

“Nah… the Elder’s are still giving me time to rest, I guess. Hopefully, I’ll be back out soon, though.”

“Back out? You mean out hunting with the rest of us?”

“Yeah. I mean that’s what they trained me to do, right? Why wouldn’t they send me back out to hunt?”

“Well…” Kol’s eyes subconsciously drifted down to Laban’s stump. “I suppose... er… I suppose they wouldn’t have a reason not to…”

Kol noticed the bandage around Laban’s knuckles.

“What happened to your hand?” Kol asked.

“What? Oh, that… it’s nothing…” Laban muttered in reply.

They reached the front of the line. Laban grabbed his small tin plate and held it out to the worker behind the counter. She placed a small chunk of meat and a handful of dried berries in the center of the plate and motioned for him to move on.

“Master Kol!” the cook suddenly beamed as he approached. “Thanks for bringing this in for us. We were sorely lacking.”

“Well, I apologize that it wasn’t more,” Kol replied. “Perhaps tomorrow will be a little more fruitful.”

“You’ve done more than enough, Kol,” she said. Laban watched as she tried to give Kol an extra piece of meat, but he insisted that she give it to someone who truly needed it, else he would leave here with an empty stomach.

When she finally let Kol leave�"which wasn’t until after he was forced into giving a vague promise about meeting her later that night�"the two found a relatively quiet corner to sit and enjoy their scanty meal.

“So… what’s it like?” Laban asked, slowly gnawing at the dried fruit.

“What’s what like?” Kol replied through a mouthful of food.

“The Outland.”

Kol shrugged. “You’ve seen it. If you’ve been out in it once, you’ve seen all of it. Nothing ever changes out there, brother.”

“Oh. Well… I guess I just thought you might have some stories.”

“Stories? I would think that someone who’s been through what you have would be happy to be done with the Outland forever.”

“Well, maybe you can teach me some tricks… for when I finally get back out. That way nothing like that ever happens to me again.”

“Sometimes, brother, things like that are unavoid�"” he stopped himself, then sighed. “Just keep your head on straight, and always keep one eye looking forward and one eye looking back. You’ll do fine, brother.”

That wasn’t exactly the sort of advice that Laban was hoping for. It was fine, but it wasn’t really any different from the vague sort of encouragement he received before his first day on the Outland, and that obviously hadn’t helped him find food or prevent any tragic accidents.

“Sure,” Laban said. “But I was kind of hoping�"”

“Hold that thought, brother,” said Kol, springing to his feet. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He waved to someone out in the crowd. “Elder Aristarchus!” he called. An old, white-haired man, who was wearing uncharacteristically shabby clothes for someone that could be called an Elder of the village, turned to face them. He gathered his rations and wandered over to where they were sitting.

“Well, I see that my clever disguise has failed me,” the old man said.

“It’s good to see you, old friend. Brother Laban here has some questions,” Kol said.

That was a lie. He wanted to know about hunting, and that was not likely a subject that this Elder knew anything about. What on earth was he supposed to ask?

“Then, by all means, I shall do my best to give answers!” replied the elder. “Do you mind?” he asked, indicating a vacant seat at their table.

“Have a seat, old friend,” Kol replied. The Elder sat down and popped a few berries into his mouth.

“Now, what is it you wished to ask me?” Aristarchus asked Laban. Laban looked nervously to Kol, who only motioned for him to speak to the elder.

“I… I don’t really have anything to say, sir,” Laban stammered.

The old man smiled. It was a kind smile, a true one. As the corners of his lips turned up, it revealed all the deep lines and creases in his skin, evidence of a long lifetime of smiling.

“I think you do, Laban,” said Aristarchus. “Even if you may not know it yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Laban said.

“Well, everyone has a story to tell. Even you. Especially you, I suspect.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not really sure I understand.”

“Once you get to be as old as me, you start to notice things�"little things. And I couldn’t help but notice that little leather pouch hanging from your belt. Anyone who’s lived more than a day in Malkuth learns not to waste things. Yet that pouch seems to be doing an awful job at holding anything.”

Laban looked down at his belt. He hadn’t gotten rid of it. Why? It was useless now. It just sort of hung there, holding on to a single piece of twine. His memory drifted back to when he had been given that pouch. By his mother. She had told him to take care of it�"not the pouch itself but the stone that it held. It was old, she said. Impossibly old. But now the stone was gone. It was no longer sacred. It had been defiled by the hands of War’acks.

“I was hunting,” Laban said. “We were attacked by the… the War’ack.”

He almost had to force the word off of his tongue. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I was with a man named Torreck,” Laban continued. “He didn’t make it. Neither did… well…” He lifted the bandaged end of his arm.

“An all-too-familiar tale, I’m afraid,” said Aristarchus, bowing his head in reverence. “But, I’m guessing those were not the only things the War’ack took.”

Laban silently slipped his finger into the empty pouch.

“I had a stone. It was a gift from my mother. She said it was called a seer-stone. A sort of… connection with Those Above.”

“A rare and precious artifact, indeed,” said Aristarchus. “And a shame that it has passed into unhallowed hands.”

“It… doesn’t matter now,” Laban said. He was lying, mostly to himself. It still hurt. Somehow more than losing his hand, it hurt. He just didn’t want to deal with any more scars. He was ready for his life to get moving again.

“But there was something that Torreck mentioned that I can’t get out of my head. Something that managed to scare even the War’acks,” Laban continued. “A name.”

“Ah. A name. That name wouldn’t happen to be Klito, would it?”

“How did you know?”

“Klito is an old legend. Much older than me, even. Old enough, I suppose, for even the War’ack to have heard it.”

“Who is he?” boop

“Oh, it’s been quite some time since I’ve told this story. Let’s see if I can remember enough of it… a thousand millennia ago, the Shadow Man was 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 would come like a thief in the night, stealing people away, gorging his unstoppable rage on their deaths. His anger alone was enough to topple empires and defeat even the most powerful armies.”

“Is he real?” Laban interrupted.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean is the Shadow Man a real person? This is just a legend, isn’t it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The War’ack king. He spoke to us. His name was Ithtar. He said that the legends of the Shadow Man came from him.”

The smiling lines on his face, though still present, began to fade. Darkness filled his voice.

“My boy, I’m afraid that these stories go much deeper and much darker than just one War’ack leader. Whether anyone can say if the Shadow Man is a true, physical person or if he was made merely to be the personification of the apparent curse that has befallen our land, I cannot say. But remember this: the darkness is real. There are dark forces at play in our lives, just as much as there are light. There are worlds that we cannot see, both light and dark. We spend each moment of our waking lives in an attempt to keep the darkness at bay.”

“So who is Klito, then?” Laban asked. “Is he the light?”

“According to the story, yes. He is. He was born afterward, but Those Above built him to oppose the darkness. His name, in the ancient tongue, means something like heir or son of the king. He and the Shadow Man are said to be equal in power and in strength, but polar opposites in purpose. It is said that Klito will someday fight with us against the forces of darkness and restore Malkuth to its former glory. Although I must admit that the stories of Klito are likely little more than an earthly fabrication�"a story generated to help rally the troops, to keep our spirits high in times of trial. But as I said, there are both light and dark forces working to conquer our lives. There will come a time when each of us will come face-to-face with the darkness. Then the choice is ours whether we will turn back to face the light.”

“Yeah… well, that just sounds like what the Elders told me before,” Laban said. “Speaking of which, I don’t think I saw you with them.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” replied Aristarchus. “The Council of the Elders consists of only seven men, of which I am currently not a member.”

“So what do you do?”

“Oh, you know… Elder things. My day mainly consists of reading a lot of books all alone in a secluded corner of the Library all by myself. It may not seem that exciting to you hunter-types, but it’s really great fun… for an Elder.”

“Well, at least the sitting around by myself part I understand,” Laban said.

“You mean you haven’t been hunting?”

“I guess your friends on the council and I have different opinions on how long it takes to recover.”

“That is a shame. Your skills ought not to go to waste.”

“Well, I’m not really sure that I have any skills to be wasted… but I really don’t mind the alone time.”

“I may be old,” said Aristarchus. “But I know a lie when I hear one.”

“I’m not�"”

“Don’t worry, young Laban,” Aristarchus said, cutting him off. “I believe that man should learn to be content in whatever situation Those Above elect to place him, but I do not believe that a man was made to be content with doing nothing. Your eagerness to return to doing is good; it is an innate desire placed within you by our Protectors.”

“So you’ll convince the others to let me hunt again?” Laban asked.

“I’ll certainly see what I can do. But I may have a better idea. I’m in need of some recruits. It seems like there isn’t an overabundance of idle people in this city. Besides you, my friend.”

“Actually, I think you should listen to Elder Aristarchus,” said Kol, re-entering the conversation. “I’ve seen some of this project of his, and I think it has the potential to help a lot of people.”

“But so will hunting, won’t it?” Laban said. “Look at how much food we got today. Isn’t it obvious that we need more hunters?”

“More hunters won’t solve any food shortages, brother,” said Kol. “There just isn’t any food to be hunted. Our men are having to move into more and more dangerous areas… most of it uncharted. Already, too many hunters haven’t come back. And with Ithtar’s War’acks pushing this far into our Territory�"”

“I’m not afraid of the War’acks.”

“You, of all people, should be, brother.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I am,” Kol said. He pulled aside the collar of his tunic to reveal two small scars on his chest.

“These are the marks of War’ack bullets,” said Kol. “I know what those animals are capable of. After this happened, I was not eager to throw myself back into the Outland. Sometimes, being afraid is the smartest thing to do.”

“Not if you become more powerful than them. Then you would have nothing to fear.”

“You think you are more powerful than Ithtar?”

Laban shrugged. “I could be. Someday.”

“That is a dangerous line of thinking, young Laban,” said Aristarchus. “The quest for power that is driven by anger and hatred can only ever lead to suffering. And that is to say nothing of the dangers of pride.”

Was there some part of the Elders’ rules that said they all have to speak in tired, old proverbs? Laban thought to himself. He ignored the urge to become annoyed.

“But I know I can do more than I am now,” Laban argued.
“Why?” Kol asked. “So you can prove to the rest of the clan that you’re strong enough?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything.”

“Then what is it exactly that you are trying to do?”

“I’m just trying to help.”
“There are many more ways to help than by risking your life on the Outland.”

“So, what? What am I supposed to do exactly? It’s been months and the Elders have just ignored me. I want to be in control of my life again.”

“Then listen to Elder Aristarchus,” said Kol. “He’s giving you an opportunity to work again.”

Laban turned to face the Elder. “With all due respect, sir, I have to refuse. I want to hunt.”

Aristarchus sighed. “Kol?” he said.

Kol shook his head. “I don’t know that there’s much I can do for him.”

“Bring him with your party tomorrow. If the others protest, tell them that he has the approval of the Elders.”

“He has the approval of but one Elder,” said Kol. “Surely the Council�"”

Aristarchus lifted his hand to silence him.

“The Council rarely concerns itself with such trivial matters. Even if it is brought to their attention, it is unlikely that any of them will care. It’s not really their nature.”

“Well, alright, then,” Kol said. “Congratulations, brother. It looks like you’re going hunting again.”

Laban breathed a sigh of relief. He was going hunting again. There would be no more lonely evenings, no more bored afternoons with naught to do but while away the hours with quiet idleness. He realized, of course, that these would be replaced with waking up before the sun and rubbing ointment over his sore muscles before finally retiring to bed for less than a full night's sleep. But at least his muscles would finally have something to do.

And yet, this small victory didn’t feel like much of a victory at all. The word coercion came to mind, which was not a word that he would have preferred to use when describing his actions. At least now he was one step closer to achieving his goals. Which were… what, exactly? Vengeance wasn’t exactly something that he craved; if Those Above really were in the business of approving or disapproving of things, justice would most certainly be on the approve list, right? Laban silently wondered what really was the difference between the two…

No. Laban knew that justice had to be satisfied. Torreck’s blood still stained his hands. The daily guilt that he felt couldn’t be washed away until those murderers�"those War’acks�"had been dealt with justly. This wasn’t just some foolish grab for power. He hadn’t been blinded by anger or revenge. He was on a crusade to bring justice to the Outland where chaos ruled. His mother had taught him that Those Above had a plan for every creature on the planet. If this were true, Laban felt that this would be his.

Of course, he wasn’t about to try to explain that to anyone. They wouldn’t understand.

The waning sunlight breathed its final breath of the day, and vanished behind the hilltops. The scorching heat immediately began to subside, inviting the myriad creatures of the desert to poke their timid heads above the sand. Shadows fell with the dusk all across the Outland.

Somewhere in the distance, a klaxon wailed. Laban recognized the noise. That alarm only sounded when the airlock doors were opening to allow passage through the shield. He had heard that alarm for the first time when his clan had arrived at Ura-chan.

But all the hunters would have checked in hours ago. There wouldn’t be anyone left outside to let in, and certainly no one would be going out at this time of day. So why was the airlock being opened?

Laban judged by the look on their faces that Aristarchus and Kol must have been equally confused.

“Were any hunters left unaccounted for at the end of the day?” asked Aristarchus.

“No,” Kol replied. “We all made it home.”

“Then that could only mean�"”

“Wanderers.”

Laban followed close behind the two as they joined the flow of bodies towards the airlock entrance.  Laban had to stand on his toes to see over the gradually thickening mass of people. The stir of excitement and anticipation that hung over the crowd was nearly palpable.

The massive deadbolts of the heavy interior door of the airlock slid aside one by one. Once it was unlocked, it took several guards to heave the door open. The crowd collectively held its breath as a thousand eyes peered into the dark emptiness within the chamber.

Cheers filled the silence when someone emerged from the darkness into the light. An emaciated old man gawked at the applauding crowd before him. More gaunt bodies emerged, draped in tattered rags. They each wore an equally dumbfounded smile on their face. The mud and dust caked on their skin only added to their skeletal appearance. They all looked much more dead than alive.

Nurses pushed their way through the crowd, carrying full canteens of water, medicines, and all the food they could spare. Some of the more frail-looking arrivals were carried away on stretchers toward the sick tent, while others were given support and directed the same way.

Laban’s eye stopped on one woman in particular as she passed. She hobbled along behind the nurses, using a bent stick as a cane to replace the leg that was missing. He thought he had seen something in her face… something familiar. But couldn’t see her face properly under the hood she wore.

Laban’s heart nearly stopped when she suddenly turned in his direction. He thought he had seen a ghost. It must be his tired eyes playing tricks on him. He hadn’t slept properly for weeks and hadn’t had a decent meal for even longer. But the longer he stared, the more convinced he was that the face he saw was nothing less than real. There were new wrinkles and new grey hairs, but she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered.

His voice squeaked: “Mother?”