The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four)

by Ivory Autumn

  Andrew watched a boy that looked only a few years younger than himself push a cart, full of a large vat of oil. The boy tripped, causing the cart to roll dangerously close to the edge of the pit, dragging the boy along with it. It stopped just before it dragged him down, causing oil to spill out onto the ground. One of the shirtless men lashed out at the boy with a club. The boy cowered before the man, crying out for mercy.

  Like the pit filled with oil and heat, Andrew’s anger smoldered. Behind him his army of slaves marched, those ahead unaware of what was about to happen. Everywhere he looked, injustice was taking place. The clanking of chains, the agonized cries, heaviness, despair, misery, stench, death, and woe surrounded him. It was as if they had secretly passed through the gates of hell, and now he was a bystander staring out over its very pit.

  A burning in his chest consumed him with only one desire. To free those chained and fettered. It burned in his soul, made his heart ache, made his mind dizzy with righteous anger, made every cell in his body want to go in every direction. It flooded over him like he had been baptized in fire. He turned to the freed slaves behind him and drew his sword, his eyes glowing. “I don’t care how you do it. Free them! FREE THEM ALL!” His voice was thick with anger. “FREE THEM!”

  He glanced at Ivory and Freddie, then forged ahead, forgetting himself entirely.

  “Wait!” Freddie cried out. “It’s too dangerous!”

  But Andrew had gone, vanishing through the smoke and heat. Andrew pushed ahead, ignoring Freddie’s and Ivory’s calls. All he cared about were those poor souls chained to their carts. His friends could never understand what he felt. Holding the blade was like holding the hearts of those imprisoned. He could feel their pain, hear their cries. He could not leave one soul behind.

  Behind him Andrew could hear the freed slaves crying out as they drew their weapons and waged war on their slave masters.

  He glanced behind him, a slight grin crossing his face. Who were the masters now? These slaves had more of a cause to fight for than anyone else. They had felt the whip, the sting of oil. They had been bound by heavy chains and would not go back unless death overtook them.

  He moved forward, breathing hard. He could feel the blistering heat on his face as he neared the pit. He could smell the heavy odor of tallow and fish oil, and human sweat.

  Flicker soared above him, dipping up and down, grabbing soldiers, and dropping them off the pit into a vat of boiling oil.

  Screams and cries of exaltation filled the air. Andrew pushed through the oncoming soldiers, swinging his sword with exactness.

  Smoke, sweat, and steam filled Andrew’s eyes. He could not think. Only move, and breath, and fight, and push onward again.

  Andrew had fought in other battles, but this time it was different. He couldn’t explain why. Now, he was fighting for so much more than himself. He glanced behind him to make sure Ivory was alright. She stood atop the wagon full of weapons, tossing them out to newly-free slaves, enabling them to fight.

  Smoke burst and bubbled around him in sickening spurts, clouding his view. He coughed, passing by a dead soldier, only to be thrown back as the same soldier bolted up, lashing a whip around Andrew, pulling him to the ground. Andrew cried out and quickly stood up. The oily whip had burned a hole through his sleeve. Yet he felt nothing, only anger. He faced the man through the shroud of smoke, and raised his sword, catching the whip with his sword, just as the man brought it down. He wrapped the whip around the blade like a strand of yarn and pulled back, throwing the man off balance and into the pit.

  Andrew gripped the sword, feeling its strength pulse through him. Here, the foe was nothing compared to the friends that surrounded him.

  “Help!” a voice cried from beneath a cart that had tipped over and lay broken across his path. Andrew peered underneath it, seeing a girl, no older than ten, trapped beneath the shattered wheel. The girl’s face was pleading, full of pain. Andrew reached and clasped the girl’s shaking hand. “I’ll get you out. I promise.”

  The girl’s eyes lit up at his words, absorbing them like dry earth licking up water. “Please, hurry. I can’t feel my leg.”

  Andrew pushed against the cart, heaving with all his might. The cart lay stuck where it was, unmoving. He wedged his sword under the wheel, and tried prying it up. Yet the sword’s strength did not help. Angry, Andrew cried out, heaving with all his might.

  The cart unexpectedly lifted.

  Confused, he turned and smiled. Freddie had come to his rescue again, and was lifting the cart with him.

  “Freddie?” Andrew cried.

  “Yeah,” Freddie grunted. “Believe it or not, I am still stronger than you in some respects, Andrew. Now get the girl. I’ve got it.”

  Andrew quickly pulled the girl to safety, just as Freddie let the cart fall. She cried out in pain, and whimpered. Her leg which was still chained to the wagon, looked broken. Andrew carefully brought his sword down on the chain, snapping it.

  Andrew pulled the girl to him, and cradled her in his arms. “Are you okay?”

  The girl’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t feel my leg.”

  Andrew brushed the girl’s wax-covered hair away from her face, and squeezed her hand. “You are brave. Now, you must go with my friend Freddie. He will make sure you are safe.” Andrew gently picked up the girl and carefully handed her to Freddie. “Take her to Ivory,” Andrew cried. “She’ll know what to do.”

  Freddie glanced at Andrew with fearful eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” Andrew assured him. “Go!”

  “But…”

  “Go!”

  Without another word, Freddie turned and ran, with the girl draped in his arms.

  Andrew continued on through the smoke and heat, closer to the inferno of bubbling oil. He moved like one who knew what he was doing, but did not consciously know. He only knew that he must keep going, keep on fighting. He pushed through the soldiers, breaking a prisoner free from his chains, just in time to turn and help someone else, only to turn, and battle another soldier.

  The deeper into the pit Andrew went, the hotter it became. Sparks sifted through the air like dancing specters watching the scene with heated malice. His face dripped with the heat. His clothes stuck to his skin. Above him he could hear the cries of the freed slaves as they battled the soldiers. His eyes burned, and his lungs longed for fresh air. Everywhere, slaves cried out, pulling against their carts and chains. The great vat of boiling oil burbled and belched up an array of sparks and smoke. He pushed further into the haze of smoke until he found himself at the bottom of the pit. The air was so polluted he could barely see. Sparks and bits of oil spattered and bubbled out of the great vat of oil, filling the air and burning his skin. Away from this large vat were racks and racks of candles, thousands upon thousands, all ready to be carted out of the place before they melted back into oil from the heat.

  Andrew pushed through the crowd of soldiers surrounding the vat, and brought his sword down on a long chain, freeing twenty slaves at once. The freed slaves cried out pushing away from their taskmasters. Andrew moved through the masses, helping slaves to free themselves, while pushing back the soldiers. Mud and wax coated the road and walls, making everything slippery and oily. All around him slaves rushed, helping other slaves to their feet, fighting and subduing the soldiers.

  An old man cried out, trying to pull his wagon up the steep path so he would not be left behind. Those already freed rushed past him, seemingly not paying him any mind. The man stumbled against the heavy wagon. It rolled back hitting him in the head. He yelped in pain, and fell, tugging at the chain holding him to the wagon. Andrew ran to the man and brought his sword against the chain. It broke with a loud snap, sending brilliant blue sparks into the air.

  Andrew helped the man to his feet. “Are you okay?”

  The man groaned, leaning on Andrew for support. The man’s legs were bowed, and his back bent. He stumbled forward, hardly able to walk. Before the
man could protest, Andrew lifted the frail man in his arms.

  “I’ve got you,” Andrew said, trudging back up the winding road, towards freedom.

  “You should leave me,” the man moaned pulling against Andrew’s arms. “I’m weak and useless.”

  Andrew shook his head, and smiled. “No,” he said with firm voice. “You are much stronger than you think.” Andrew set his jaw, and continued up the steep road. He had felt this man’s strength in the sword. No. He was not useless. He was not weak. Only those who believed a lie were weak. Only those who let themselves be trapped by fear, enslaved by deception, who gave their will away freely, were weak. And this man, though frail and fragile as he was, was not weak. Andrew was beginning to understand something. Weakness was something that was in the heart and in the mind. That type of weakness was far more debilitating than any physical weakness.

  True strength came from truth. Nothing more. That kind of strength was something that was not measured in muscle, not tabulated in education, wealth, or possession---but possession of one’s own mind, will, and strength of soul. That kind of strength could never be taken away, only given away. And once that powerful source of strength is given away it is hard to ever get back. To give it away means you lose the most powerful part of yourself that makes you, you. It leaves you weaker than a man in a sick bed could ever be.

  “Let me die,” the man moaned, as Andrew struggled up the slippery road.

  Andrew shook his head, and continued walking. “No.”

  “I’m not worth it,” the old man protested.

  “You are to me!” Andrew said those words with such conviction that the man smiled, his sad face filling with more light than the host of candles in the entire camp could ever emit. At first the old man seemed very light in Andrew’s arms, but the further he trudged up the steep path, the heavier the man became. His arms screamed, and his back ached. He stepped in a muddy, waxy patch of earth, and nearly dropped the old man. But he caught his footing and continued on. Many other slaves passed by him, moving much more quickly.

  Still he continued onward though it seemed like he was miles away from where he had started. Through the smoke, sparks, and mud he marched until finally he reached the top of the pit.

  “There he is!” Freddie cried. Once Freddie spotted him, a loud cheer ran through the gathering. All around him stood freed slaves, their faces gaunt, and dirty---their clothes torn and filthy. But their eyes were filled with light.

  The entire camp of slaves had been taken in a night---every soldier defeated. No one seemed to notice the bodies of the soldiers strewn across the ground, their gray bodies meshing into the waxy earth as if they, too, were becoming wax.

  Someone took the old man from Andrew’s arms as the crowd of freed slaves surrounded him in a cheering mass.

  Hands reached out at him---dirty hands, weary, work worn hands, but strong hands. Andrew wondered how strong they could be if they would all rise up together.

  Andrew’s throat grew tight. His eyes grew misty, and his heart swelled with gratitude.

  The summoning was only just beginning.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Chest of Unsaid

  Words

  Andrew moved ahead of his new army of freed slaves. Bedraggled and as weary as they were, they had a glow about them that shone even through their dirty skin.

  Young and old, women, men---all sang and rejoiced at their new freedom. Their music carried far, and swelled through the air as they walked, like an unseen flag that bore the banner of he whom they served, their master of light, mercy, justice and truth. Theirs was the song of freedom, of redemption, of awakening, and second chances.

  Their minds were awake. Their hearts alive. Their eyes clear, their ears ready to listen.

  Flicker flew before the army of slaves, directing them across the waxy land into a country full of chalky white dirt, and green pools of clear water, to the edge of a granite city that gleamed in the sun. The city was fortified by glittering walls and tall willow trees with leaves that had turned yellow from the autumn frost. The city of Copious was indeed as its name sounded. It spread out over the land like a vast canopy full of people and abundance. It was neither lacking any comfort, nor any luxury. From its tallest buildings to its shortest tower, everything was embellished, beautified, bedecked, and bedazzled. All was full, plentiful, populated, and prominent. The city was a plentiful paradise fit for kings.

  The army of slaves surged through the gates of Copious, pushing the unready soldiers and watchmen aside by their vast numbers and weapons.

  A great cry went up through the city, a cry of woe and wonder. Though there were soldiers in plenteous numbers throughout the city, they were taken off guard by the flood of savage-looking slaves. They had not imagined nor prepared for such an affront of armed people coming against them.

  “To the center of the city!” Andrew cried, standing atop the wagon that bore the unsaid words. “There we will make our stand!”

  The army of slaves moved through the city, subduing any who would hinder them from their course. They were an unstoppable force that drew power from the truth they held in their hearts.

  With each step they took closer to the center of the city, the louder the chest of words throbbed, moaned, groaned and creaked, as if tearing at the inside of its prison with desperate hands. Andrew sat atop the wagon, as his horse struggled to move the heavy chest of words to its final destination. The slaves fought their way through the gathering soldiers, creating a path for Andrew’s horse.

  The wagon moved slowly, creaking laboriously, weary of the load it bore. With each step the wagon slowed, as if the chest was growing heavier and heavier.

  “Keep going!” Andrew encouraged his horse. “You can do it.”

  The horse breathed deeply, its body shiny with sweat, its head bowed, its nostrils flaring as it pulled the heavy cart painfully forward.

  With each step, the chest thump, thump, thump, thumped, like a host of powerful drummers, the sound rising and falling over the noisy crowd.

  Andrew leaned against the chest, his hands resting on the lock, feeling the chest vibrate against his hands like something living. He stared across his army, far out into the city, with keen eyes. It was a city full of every kind of nothing you could ever want. It was extravagant, ostentatious, large, and boisterous. Everyone was in everyone’s faces. To Andrew it seemed a place where people didn’t look you in the eye, and when they did, it was to glare at you because you had probably stepped on their foot or accidentally touched them. They were judgmental and quick-tempered. They were narrow minded, and vastly uninformed.

  They knew just enough to know nothing. And the nothings they thought they knew, they knew emphatically. They kept their traditions with zeal and a certain amount of religiosity. They were shiny, surfacey, clean people, polished, possessing everything except one thing.

  The truth.

  Oh, they thought they knew the truth. But when it came down to it, they only knew half truths, which were twice as bad as believing outright lies. These half-truthers had upturned noses and narcissistic personalities. Oh, they weren’t all bad. They cared for one another. That is, if that meant caring for one of their own, whomever that might be at the moment.

  They were sweet-lovers in every sense of the word. Anything just a little tart, bitter, or strange, new or slightly different, they rejected, pounced upon, pulled down, ripped apart, much like a rhino stamping out a fire.

  They disliked interruption, disliked bad news. Yet they thrived on it in a morbid sort of way, as if it applied to everyone but themselves. They liked their quiet, regulated lives. They worked, ate, went to school, and did everything that was expected of them, much like an orderly beehive. Even if that beehive teetered and swayed above a steep precipice, attached only to a thin string, they cared not. This thin string had been strong, and unbreakable for many years. It was something that held them firmly in place, something strong, steady, and secure. Yet, year by year, h
our by hour, there were those in the beehive that fought against the cord holding them in place, arguing its usefulness. So day by day, year by year, leaders in the beehive invented ridiculous excuses to cut small threads of the thick cord, until, thread by thread, the thick cord was not a thick cord at all. But a very thin thread.

  And for some time, because that thread was made strong, even though it was a thin string, it held the beehive in place for many years. Many argued that the thin, little string had held them for the bulk of their lives and would still hold them for many years to come.

  After so much time had passed, people forgot that there had been a strong cord holding them in place. They only remembered the thin string. No one would venture out and see the thin thread that was holding them from certain destruction. It was better to just be ignorant, for who could do anything about it anyway?

  Some upstarts had suggested they move. Others even said that they should perhaps fix the string. Others protested that the string should be cut because it was binding them down, just like all the other cords they had cut away. So while some held a knife to the string, others held their hands over their eyes and continued on like nothing was wrong. Others protested that those holding the knifes were the ones actually protecting the hive. Thus, their lives continued on in the same manner. Until Andrew and his band of freed slaves entered the city.

  Soldiers buzzed, cries rang out, and men shouted. Andrew’s army pushed through the city demanding food, weapons, and help, urging them to wake up, to do something about the fraying thread their city was held in place by.

  The streets were stirring with angry people, both young and old. Some started arguing over the thickness of the thread, others argued over the weight of the hive and those cutting away at the thread. Others argued that the thread was old in the first place, and that it should be replaced. Yet none realized that if the thread was cut, the hive would fall to destruction.