Scribbler Guardian 2: Seven Sons of Zion

by Lucian Bane

  “Leave him!” Contessant’s desperate command somehow slipped beneath the brutal butchering and encased his mind in a heat. The sudden clarity came like a jolt of fresh air and Poe gulped it in.

  They do not have this right, he tried to say.

  “You have no right!” Contessant yelled.

  It… is subject to the Queen’s authority.

  “You are subject to the Queen’s authority,” Contessant screamed in the same boldness he thought with.

  And… my Scribbler… will summon Octava’s Queen.

  How do I summon the Queen?! Contessant begged in his mind.

  I don’t know!

  “I summon the Queen!” Contessant cried in a loud voice. “I summon the Queen! I summon the Queen!”

  The sound of tearing metal bit into Poe’s ears along with the screeching howls of a thousand beasts. The world spun and blurred and whirled until he thought he’d be sick. And then they stood in an open field.

  Poe glanced around, arms out at his sides in an effort to steady the spinning. He blinked clarity into his vision, immediately recognizing where they were. They were near one of Octava’s waterways. But they were at the very end of the provinces, which put them as far from the Capital as they could get.

  “Where are we?” Contessant gasped. “It worked? Where… where is the Queen?”

  Relief rushed through Poe and he grabbed Contessant into a tight embrace. “I don’t know. I don’t know where the Queen is.” Thank the realms she was okay.

  “Have you… have you ever met the Queen?” she cried into his chest.

  “I have not.” He took her face in his hands and stared into her eyes, needing to see she was there and real, before doing what he’d desperately needed for what felt like a wretched eternity. He kissed her. And divinities, nothing had ever felt, tasted, or was more real and fantastical all at once. And as he devoured her breaths with his own, he did not care one hadron if it were all a dream. Real or fictional, either was far more than enough for him.

  Poe remembered then and broke the kiss, looking around.

  “What?” Contessant searched with him.

  “Rukie. Where is Rukie?”

  “Oh no.” Contessant turned all about now. “I… I don’t see her.”

  “We must get to the Queen. Taka. Taka will take us to the Capital.”

  “The Queen is there?”

  “Yes. The Queen is there.”

  ****

  Kane struggled again to open his eyes, to move his body, any part of it. All of him seemed sealed shut. Every part of him melded to some surface, his eyes glued tight. The pain said they’d burned them shut forever.

  He fought not to panic at feeling his mouth sealed as well. His nose and ears were the only things he had to get information. The smell wasn’t anything he understood or remembered. It wasn’t foul, or medicinal like at the hospital he’d come to know since his birth.

  His memories were blotchy, like an abstract puzzle piece. And when he was conscious, he used his puzzle solving abilities to piece it all together. He’d woken five times at wherever he was. And in those five times, he’d pieced a lot together. Each time, he went over the pieces, to remember. He needed to remember them.

  He’d gone to Earth with Mr. Poe.

  He’d met his Scribbler.

  He’d met the Arks.

  The Sound Scribbler.

  And he’d… he’d somehow gotten back. That’s where it all became fractured images. Something happened to get him back. But where was Mr. Poe? The Scribbler? And where was the fear and uncertainty he once knew? Felt like… he was missing many pieces. Many, many pieces. Like he’d lived an entire life and forgotten it. He could feel it in his body and mind, the years of experience, but the details of them were lost.

  He needed to find Mr. Poe. And the Scribbler. They would help them.

  Them?

  Kane’s heart rate spiked at the strange but correct term. There was… two of him? How? But there was. He could feel them both—two different halves. Both the same but different. What had happened to him?

  A deep humming vibrated his body.

  Adrenalin raced into his blood as his brain and muscles remembered. Remembered the thing he kept forgetting between consciousness—the humming and then the pain.

  Furious agony gripped his body and shook him with a horror unlike anything he could describe. Kane’s eyeballs fought to roll all the way around in his head, the muscles burning like fire in their sockets as they struggled to tear free. His limbs turned rigid as the probing came again. He remembered it now. It wanted something from him. Something in his mind. And he only knew that he had to fight. Not let them take it. Kane also remembered what he did to hide, and quickly raced to do it, barely escaping the hungry clutches that sought his secret.

  He remembered it was the same each time. The scan would come, he would go through the same memories, same piecing together of information. And while he was getting farther along in his puzzle, the scanner thing was getting closer to catching him before he could escape with his special trick.

  Soon they’d catch him. And then what would happen?

  Kane did it again. It’s what he always remembered to do before he regained consciousness. He called to them as loud as he could from his secret place. Mom…. Dad…. Help me!

  ****

  The Sound Scribbler peeked out of the curtain, again feeling it. Seemed to come every twenty minutes. A disturbance in his spirit, a ruffling of the still waters. What was it?

  He glanced around the room, wondering how long he had? How long before they found him? He’d barely escaped the hall with the broken remnants of the most impossible orchestration he’d ever encountered or performed. That he’d been allowed such a divine duty still dumbfounded him.

  And Poe. Dear Poe. The 8th Ark of Octava. The Sound Scribbler had begun to think he’d gone mad. That somewhere along the way, he’d ended up in that asylum not by his own cleverness but by being truly insane.

  And then the 8th Ark of Octava had come. Like an angel, a divine appointment. Even still, he had moments where he feared he’d made it all up. But now, he had the proof of how real it all was. He’d met a real Scribbler. She was a real person on planet Earth. He’d checked, mostly as a means to ensure his own sanity—to ensure he hadn’t fabricated all of it or been deceived by the Dudgeon. And those, too, were real people trying to kill him—further proof of his sanity.

  His heart slowly meandered as it always did in between the thoughts. Would the 8th Ark tell the Queen what he’d confessed? Why would he? Why should he? The Sound Scribbler recalled the love the 8th Ark had for his Scribbler. He, of all beings, understood what the Sound Scribbler felt. It was the only reason he’d confessed it. And he had not realized how greatly that unconfessed love had burdened his soul until he’d let it loose into the universe. Many times he’d conveyed his love to the Queen through his gifts, but never had he confessed it so directly.

  And even though he knew it was foolish to even consider, his heart refused to leave it, refused to abandon all hope. If the Queen but knew his feelings, it would be enough for him. Even if he never saw her a single second in his existence… it was enough.

  But the orchestration, as fantastical as it had been, had gone terribly wrong. He’d spent the immediate hours following, in hiding yet again, orchestrating a very discreet distress signal. He needed a miracle. And so he called for the Queen of Octava. Somehow, he had to reach her. Warn her. Before the Dudgeon breeched the Forbidden Embolus with their treachery and caught the entire realm unaware.

  Chapter Six

  “I don’t understand,” Poe said, whistling again for Taka, while looking around. “He’s never done this.” And there wasn’t even a manual transporter near. Divinities.

  “How far is the Capital by foot?” Scribbler blocked the sun with a hand at her brow.

  “Days on foot. Two, maybe three.” He prayed they’d not have to walk it. “The safest route is along the waterway. Perhaps Tak
a will show up as well.”

  “What’s the other way?”

  “Straight through the provinces. Half the time but not something I want to chance.”

  “Why? I thought there was no danger…” Contessant lowered her head, no doubt realizing how that clearly no longer applied. “Don’t you think we’d be safer in the provinces than in the open of the waterway? If they are trying to stop us, I’m thinking blending might be the best idea?”

  Poe contemplated that. The waterway would be the first place they’d likely look for them if they were being hunted. “Perhaps,” he conceded begrudgingly. “I am not the least keen on passing through the Independent Provinces of any kind.” He nodded in the distance just ahead. “Particularly not the one coming up.”

  She regarded the tree-line before them. “Is that where it starts? What is it?”

  “That is the Independent Horror province and all their deplorable subgenres.” He didn’t bother to mask his disgust.

  “Oh dear,” Contessant barely whispered.

  “Indeed. Perhaps we can take the waterway just past it and venture through the provinces after.”

  “What’s after that?”

  “Traditional horror—and all its despicable subgenres as well.” It hit him then. She was practically a legendary Scribbler there. And seeing how the character’s behaved, venturing in them was a bad idea. Another thing occurred to him. “Do you happen to have any unpublished horror written?”

  “Uhhh,” she said, looking suddenly worried. “A bit. Yes.”

  “How much?”

  She chewed on her lower lip and looked down. “Maybe…. maybe a couple… dozen.”

  “Divinities,” Poe whispered, having a hard time masking his shock and distaste.

  “It was during that dark time, Poe. I never published any of it,” she assured, looking guilty.

  “Never mind that,” Poe said, realizing now wasn’t the time. “We’ll go along the waterway and into the provinces if we see the need.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable plan.”

  ****

  Charlotte was suddenly desperately hoping their little trek along the waterway went well. At least past the Independent Horror genre province. She didn’t want Poe to know what sort of stuff she’d written there. Bad enough she’d written so much in the Traditional Horror. The things she’d written in the other were dark. Very dark. And fictional, she reminded herself. It had all been very fictional. A safe means to live out the emotions she couldn’t. Process the evil. Had she known what she created was real in any fashion, she’d been much more… responsible.

  “Someone comes on the waterway.” Poe pulled her quickly toward the tree line several yards away. Once in the confines, they hid and watched. A fleet of boats raced past.

  “What are they?”

  “Quarks and Hadrons,” he muttered. “Looks like standard capital officials. At least it’s not the 8 Gendarme.”

  “I don’t recall what that is.”

  “Octava’s Executioners. I am scheduled to be put to death, I do believe.”

  “What?” she gasped. “Why?”

  “For breaking into Kane’s story unlawfully.”

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “To save him from unlawful things!”

  “I will have to prove that first.”

  “Can you?”

  “I don’t really know at this point, and I’d prefer to go straight to the Queen if possible instead of through Octava’s judicial process. I have a feeling time is not on our side.”

  “Then we don’t risk it. Otherwise, I’d say we could hitch a ride straight to the Capital.”

  Poe nodded and took her hand, heading out along the waterway again. Some time into their trek, Charlotte couldn’t keep from smiling at how Poe held her hand. Despite the dire situation, the simple, protective gesture made her feel like she was starring in one of those wretched romances they once abhorred. But not anymore. She bit her lip and grinned, feeling every bit the stupid and careless lover in her very own fairytale.

  Charlotte took the opportunity to take in the scenery. She marveled mostly at how exactly like Earth it was. They could have been walking along any river in Colorado. Minus the cool weather. “What is the temperature to you my dear Poe?” she asked after a while.

  “Temperature? My senses tell me it’s approximately eighty-six degrees.” His silver eyes flashed over his shoulder, full of that sharp observation. Her stomach tickled at seeing sudden sparks in his gaze when his eyes lingered on her, turning the temperature right up. “Are you hot?”

  “No,” she said smiling.

  “I do not wish your experience on Octava to be wretched, but… I do think it is, given our situation.”

  She wondered if he found it strange for her to find anything funny at such a time. Shame hit her. If she had half a brain she’d not be frivolously indulging in these silly emotions at such a time.

  He stopped and Charlotte nearly ran into him. “I’ve upset you.”

  His tone said he was baffled that he had, and frustrated that he couldn’t understand why, not without having to ask.

  “It’s not you, my dear Poe, it’s me.” She blew the stray hairs out of her face, finding the air suddenly stifling.

  “Are you ill?”

  “I guess you could say that?” She looked around then, not comfortable talking about the whole love thing in a casual manner.

  “Divinities,” Poe whispered, like that was the last thing they needed.

  “Not in the way that you think, Poe.”

  “How?”

  She nodded looking around. “Perhaps it’s the atmosphere on Octava. How close to the Romance province are we, maybe it’s the air coming from there?”

  He stared at her perplexed.

  “I certainly created you very dense, didn’t I?”

  He drew back at that. “Most certainly not.”

  “There is a heat with your gaze, my very good Poe. A very real heat.” She bit her lower lip to keep from smiling at the words he’d once spoken to her.

  She ventured a glance at him after several seconds of silence, unable to keep back her giggle at seeing he remembered.

  “I see. I’m… sorry, I didn’t mean…” he began.

  “I’m not sorry.” She pushed hair behind her ears, fighting guilt then shaking her head and angling a look up at him. “Why should I be sorry? I’m not. I’m happy in fact. So much that even our circumstances cannot take that from me.” She held his gaze boldly now, her heart racing at the connection of their gazes. “Why should I be the least sorry for that, Mr. Poe?”

  “You shouldn’t.” His tone matched the soft liquid silver in his gaze. Her lover predicament doubled when his large hand encased hers. She swallowed as he held her eyes with his and lifted her hand to his mouth. The gradual press of his full lips to the backs of her fingers along with the prickle of his facial hair, made her heart race wildly. “I do wish things were different.”

  Charlotte gave a small shrug and smiled. “I can’t justify feeling the least upset while…” The love words snagged in her throat like her body didn’t know how to be romantic.

  “While what, Contessant?”

  As she struggled to properly communicate her feelings, the terms continued to pile up in her throat like a dam. “Lord,” she gasped.

  Poe pulled her into his arms and the physical connection woke her hunger, the one she’d tried to kill by starvation for years and years. She gripped him tight to her and he stroked her with an utmost adoration that flowed through her body like electrified honey. “I know how very new it is,” he said softly.

  “It is, yes,” she barely managed. “I know what I want to say and when I go to say it, the words jumble up.”

  “And your mind spins with feelings rather than thoughts?” He tilted her face up to his.

  “Yes.”

  “I know this wonderful phenomenon quite well with you.”

  “Do you?” She tried to smile but at seeing he might kiss her,
she held her breath in desperate anticipation and need for exactly that.

  His silvery eyes roamed her face and locked onto her mouth. “I merely look at your lips and I am reduced to…” He lowered down and gave her the barest kiss. “Not reduced,” he corrected, his mouth moving along hers. “Raised up from the confines of everything that I am.”

  Charlotte sighed, losing herself to his words and the growing grip of his fingers along her face. “Kiss me.”

  His mouth erupted with a hunger at her desperate plea to really kiss her. And heavens, he did. He kissed the breath from her body until her being hummed at the passion and strength that was all hers beneath the layers of his black attire.

  He seemed to struggle with the same need to have more than was possible, there near the waterway. “Divinities, why did you have to be a man upon my waking?” His fingers wound in her hair as the words growled right in her mouth. Charlotte half laughed and sobbed out her desperate agreement. “I will have you there, yet.”

  The lethal promise and all that she knew it meant, made her weak. “Yes,” she agreed, stroking the rough facial hair and scar she’d given him while sealing her side of that deal with soft kisses.

  Poe jerked his head and they both ran toward the tree line again as more boats passed. “More patrols. I think we’d better go through the provinces. I don’t want to risk it.”

  “Is there no security in the provinces?”

  “Yes, but it’s much easier to hide.”

  “True,” Charlotte said. “Whatever you think we need to do.”

  He pointed in the forest. “We pass through the bog and enter the Independent Horror province. Then the Traditional.”

  “The bog? What is that again?”

  “Every province has one. The place where a character’s energy returns after they are no longer… alive.”

  She gasped. “Like… a graveyard?”

  “More like a life source. The energies are merely stored there until new characters are created. I often refer to it as the recyclable.”

  “Right,” she said fascinated, peering into the dark interior now. “Is it… safe?”

  “Probably not. So, I will need you close to me at all times.” He took her hand and they headed into the forest at a careful pace.