The Boy and His Curse

by Michael P Mordenga

  “Sokratist Bears!” Ashen screamed and suddenly the ground shook.

  Just over the hill came a stampede of sokratist bears. Never had viciousness been perfectly formed in a beast before the sokratist was trained. They were long, sleek monsters with power and speed. Riding on each sat a master of the sokratist bear that spared no effort to keep them hungry before a battle. With wolf eyes and wolverine jowls, they charged forward, letting loose their ferocious bark of doom.

  Budgeron’s heart sank to his feet when he saw the fifty sokratist bears charge into the war. It would take at least three Phaenix to take one down. Meanwhile the huge beasts would overcome his battalions. The Kalhari had been hiding this all along, waiting to finish off the Phaenix. Unless there was a miracle, this would be how it ended.

  The Sokratist bears stood up on hind legs and towered over the Phaenix sword warriors. In a single horrifying wave they descended and clawed away, biting and chewing. A whole front row of Phaenix were trampled underfoot by the sokratists.

  Mollet had told Thief to run away and the small Phaenix did not hesitate. He wished he was brave enough to stay, but his legs begged him to go. Mollet was in a deadlock with a beast. He pushed his long blade deep into its chest, but the sheer power of the bear leaned with equal force. The rider on the beast tried to climb around and stab Mollet with a pocket dagger. Mollet pushed on his legs until they dug into the ground, struggling to get the beast on its belly. As he saw the rider slide down, in one swift motion Mollet rolled backwards, letting gravity take the sokratist bear. Mollet was free from the deadlock, but the beast charged at him again. This time he was ready to face the growling monster. It came for him with the rider yelling a Kalhari victory.

  “Fall back! Escape! North run! North run!” Budgeron yelled.

  As Mollet turned his head at the call, the sokratist bear knocked him off his feet into the dirt. He stumbled back. The beast had charged again, this time looking to mount its weight on the warrior and bite into him. Mollet was quicker. The call to retreat from Budgeron irritated him, but he regained his senses. He dug his sword hilt into the ground with the blade sticking out. When the beast came trudging forward it stood on both hind legs. Mollet leapt; his wings outstretched, gliding him forward. He grabbed hold of the bear’s head and pushed down with all his weight. Making a noose with his arms around the neck, Mollet let gravity take him down to the grass. The sokratist bear went with him, but his belly found the blade of the Vota.

  With a toppling surrender of life, the bear was dead. The rider fled for his life, realizing that his greatest weapon had been killed.

  Mollet tipped over the bear, retrieved his sword and wiped the blood off.

  “Fall back! Escape! North run!” Budgeron pleaded.

  But something did not sit right with the seasoned soldier. His army of brethren were retreating to the safety of Budgeron. Some warriors were foolish enough to stay and fight and they found a quick death to the rampaging army. Others did not wish to die in a battle they had no hope of winning. Still, Mollet felt like there was unfinished business. His instinct and senses lit up in his brain, pushing him to make this battle worth his time. Surely this could not be the end of Faeria’s military. There had to be more than this obliteration. It burned in Mollet’s blood and he needed to venture forth.

  The corner of his trained eyes caught an odd sight. Behind a row of hungry sokratist bears looking for flesh to devour, there were four Kalhari that were not in battle chest plates. They did not have swords and their physiques were not trained for battle. Their bodies were shifted away from the action and their attention was on a wooden cart. On that cart was a large metal contraption that no Phaenix had ever seen before.

  Mollet stared further, watching the four Kalhari engineers push the metal contraption down to the grassy earth. It was heavy, the four could barely slide it to the ground. They were bent on making sure the slag of silver metal was in working condition. They communicated various instructions with each other, working together to get the machine in its proper place. Once the machine was firmly planted into the ground, it started to glow with bright branches of green light sliding down its base. The wheels were turning, clicking and whirring much to the delight of Mollet’s enemies.

  This deserved further investigation. Mollet found himself running toward the engineers. He had forgotten there was a wall of towering bear monsters blocking his position. Urgent power pushed him to stop whatever this contraption was. It was clear that the Kalhari did not want to use their science and technology to make Faeria a safer place for the Phaenix. This had to be an evil device and it needed to be stopped now.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  This response lacked military intelligence, as it made every sokratist bear know his position. In the corners of his peripheral vision, Mollet could see every snarling beast turn its attention to his meaty frame. All focus was brought to the rushing warrior with the tremendous black sword.

  Mollet's legs became the wind and drove him to the target.

  The silver Cragglin was pumping its bright green contents into the needle. It filled up the metal needle and then it would drive into the earth creating a future genocide. This was the insurance that Faeria would be lost forever. If the Poiseidon touched the ground it would spread like a flaming virus. No power would be able to stop it.

  The impact hit Mollet like a cluster of locomotives. A sokratist bear drove its head square into his armor. His body exploded to the left, sending him flying. He tumbled to the ground, but it was not the end.

  Two sokratist bears lumbered over to the downed warrior, the riders shouting obscenities.

  Mollet felt the wind leave his body. He was not ready to lie on the ground and accept defeat, but his bones cried in pain. This had to be a cracked rib if he had time to assess the damage. He poised himself to sit up, but it was too late. The sokratist dove its sharp teeth into his ankle. The bite was deep and the teeth could feel the satisfaction of crunching bone.

  Mollet roared in pain. His Vota was in his hand, hacking desperately at the beast’s head.

  Another sokratist came in from behind. It savagely opened its mouth and dug in deep to Mollet’s shoulder. Another scream escaped from the warrior’s mouth.

  The engineer looked at the Cragglin, inspecting the machine with satisfaction. The needle was almost full. All that was needed was the machine to pierce the ground and Fragile would be rewarding them for their hard work.

  The sokratist bears were pulling away from each other, both with a piece of Mollet in their mouth. Their strong jowls could rip the warrior in half.

  The pain in Mollet’s shoulder and the gouge in his foot was so excruciating that Mollet felt he would black out. It was the kind of pain that would make the body ice cold and only the rushing warm blood from the bite marks were keeping him warm. His face was white, drained of all the energy needed to assail his attackers. He would be a lifeless sack of warrior meat for the monsters to play with.

  He couldn’t go out. His eyes were still glued to the needle on the Cragglin. It was complete and the engineers were going to use it. While he had no clue what that device was made for, every bit of his instinct begged him to remove it from the battlefield.

  Stop them, Mollet. The voice in his head was pleading with him.

  The sokratist bears got louder with their growling and slobbering as they could taste more of Mollet’s blood. With a vicious yank they could rip this warrior into two pieces.

  Mollet felt the deep horrible sleep fall over his body. If he let the darkness fall over his mind the pain would stop. He was losing hope. His heart began to pump slower. His pulse became like an old ticking watch. The pain was becoming a frozen blast of numbness. He closed his eyes at what felt like an eternity. The sweet sleep of death was coming. All he could do was pray. Daysun help me.

  *****

  Far off in the West of Faeria, in the mountain home of Gibbs, the high priest was bent on his knees begging the Daysun not to obliterate the chi
ldren of the Phaenix.

  “Daysun help him,” escaped his lips.

  *****

  When Mollet opened his eyes, he realized one of his desperate sword hacks had made contact with the eye of the sokratist bear. It created a clean cut into the head of the bear followed by the monster jerking back in pain. The beast began to worry more about the enormous pain in its eye from the fresh cut.

  Mollet’s foot was free and he was able to touch ground again. It wasn’t long before he was able to gain back his senses.

  He pushed his powerful wings into the face of the sokratist bear ripping into his shoulder. It was just enough force for the bear to tumble backwards and drop its rider.

  Now it was time to launch himself at the target of his desperation. Like an arrow from a bow, Mollet used his wing strength to pierce the air. Rocketing toward the Cragglin, Mollet would not be stopped. He speared the first engineer near the evil machine, blasting the poor Kalhari so hard the troll might have shattered into atoms.

  “He will try to stop us,” Bentaur shouted.

  It was a one-sided victory for Mollet as he cold clocked the first engineer in the head with his fist. The other engineer had no offense and was not going to square off with the man with the sword.

  “Coward!” Bentaur said to the running Kalhari.

  The discs around the Cragglin were churning. The sound of a hydraulic pump could be heard. The machine was ready to dispense its contents.

  Mollet hammered down his sword on one of the churning discs. Sparks flew from his sword, only a small dent in the thick steel was made.

  “You will not stop this machine, warrior. It is heavier than three rhinophants,” Bentaur bellowed, but still at a safe distance.

  Mollet was not ready to give up. The huge needle was protruding from the metal chess piece. The tip was hungry to kiss the ground. It loomed its head like a snake. The arm on the needle was exactly three arm breadths. Perhaps if he could throw it on its side it would not reach the ground.

  With both palms pushed against the metal piece, Mollet thrust the metal piece with all his might. His wings popped out for leverage. His feet dug into the dirt. His face turned beet red and every vein was popping in his face. His chest tightened. He was not breathing. His hands dripped with sweat. Push. Push.

  The needle dipped further toward the sod.

  Mollet pushed steadily. The Cragglin started to tip off the ground.

  “You can’t move it!” Bentaur cried.

  The Cragglin tipped more. Mollet felt impossible strength course through his blood. The bones in his arms were plated with steel blocks. With a growl of blood curdling strength, he heaved the Cragglin on its side. It toppled into the dirt, falling like the walls surrounding an enemy camp. The needle was upright with no dirt to feed its hunger. One of the discs snapped from the impact of its weight, making the hydraulic gears unable to pump out the poison. The destructive liquid was trapped in the thick metal prison.

  Some of the Poisideon started to flow from the needle and dripped over the base of the Cragglin.

  Bentaur tried to hide his awe. A warrior just uprooted a device made of the heaviest metals in Bangor. The fear in his legs made him want to scurry like a rabbit, but he needed one more comeback. “The poison will still find the ground!”

  Not so! Mollet grabbed the haughty engineer, his iron arms clenched onto the torso of Bentaur. He lifted up the creature as easy as a hurricane lifting a leaf.

  Plop!

  Bentaur was now the stopper over the needle. Mollet had used the engineer’s back to connect with the poison. Bentaur was impaled; his torso became a storage bin for any excess poison.

  With wide white pupils, Bentaur choked out spittle. His body was punctured and receiving the caustic liquid.

  “You...can’t...do this,” he spit out between cries.

  “Then you better shut it off!” Those were the last words Bentaur heard from Mollet.

  “Retreat!” Budgeron screamed from across the field. He was still yelling for the stubborn warriors to escape the onslaught of Kalhari victories.

  The warriors could not believe what they were hearing. They were escaping the battle and giving Kalhari the Drift Space.

  Mollet didn’t want to leave, but he saw his warriors heading toward the North. He would be left alone with more sokratist bears, which he didn’t mind, but he needed to keep Thief safe. Within moments his wings spread ready to take flight. Every Phaenix had left, leaving only the corpses and the Kalhari.

  Thief was told to run with the other retreating soldiers. Mollet looked frantically to his left and right. The little sprout was nowhere. Looking down, Mollet saw the sokratists driving forward. He looked to see if any had Thief. None of them did, but he would rip apart every one of them to find the young Phaenix. He flew in retreat, but his eyes scanned the battlefield for downed bodies.

  “Mollet!” Budgeron shouted. “You need to leave!”

  Budgeron’s direction made him flinch, but he needed to make sure Thief was safe. The urge to protect his charge didn’t change, though a whole squad of trolls and sokratists were advancing on him. He didn’t care now, he was going to smash through all of them. He held out his sword.

  The hand of a fellow warrior grabbed his chest plate. “Thief went into the East forest. He is safe. We need you with us. Also, the Earthian fled. He did not even raise his sword.”

  Mollet’s stomach flip-flopped. He realized he was escaping, leaving the field to the victors—the undeserving monsters. He could destroy them until they plunged his heart from his chest, but he was needed by Budgeron. He left with the other Phaenix—far from the battle.

  This was a dark day for Faeria.

  “Do not fear the sad times my little boy. Wherever there is rain a rainbow is not far away.”

  - A Nursery Song from Ethan’s Adopted Mother

  XXIII: Silence From the Sky

  Dormond, the messenger Phaenix, landed on the golden shores of the quiet beach. The floating castle stood in defiance to him. The sky was quiet ignorant to the war that was just lost. Not a single soul knew what Dormand knew. He dreaded that he was the only one capable of breaking such sad news.

  Underneath Dormand’s arm he held the numbers of those who had fallen during battle. His word would be the first message the Queen would hear. He held up his hand to the spagion guarding the entrance.

  “Open! Open! Results of the battle!”

  The spagion opened the door without a second glance. Dormand was led by two spagion through the royal halls. Onlookers and servants started to gather around the messenger. They begged the messenger for good news. He ignored all their requests for a quick answer. Only the Queen needed to hear this.

  Dormand arrived through the golden doors.

  The Queen rose up.

  Dormand bowed. It did not matter to the Queen.

  “The news?” she asked more urgent than professional.

  Dormand began to unravel Faeria’s loss in the battle, including the warriors that had fallen and the Kalhari attempt to use poison to annihilate the homeland. After he was done there was a terrifying silence. Some of the Queen’s diplomatic servants tried to attend to her, but she turned away from them.

  The Queen looked flush. She did not give Dormand the sign to leave her presence. She exited the throne room like a haunted spirit.

  “Stand guard! The battle has been lost! Stand guard! Faeria has fallen!”

  The town seers of the North bellowed out to the inhabitants. Anyone within earshot could hear their horrible cry of death.

  Immediately, like a dam bursting, the citizens of the North bolted in any direction. Men were pushing over women and children in an attempt to get to safety. A pocket of rioters pushed over bakery carts, stealing the bread. Old men and women were getting trampled from the chaos. Screams of fear echoed off the stone walls. The deacons and servants of the Holy Order could be heard begging Daysun to come down and save them. Others stood silently and waited for the inevitable.
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  The trolls were going to charge forth and ransack the North. No power was able to fend off the evil invading their land. No high power or god was going to lend a finger to save them. The Kalhari would overtake the floating castle and declare Faeria their domain.

  “Stand guard! The battle has been lost! Stand guard! Faeria has fallen!” The cries erupted.

  The panic ensued. Lawmakers and wealthy Phaenix were gathering up their riches and belongings. They had scattered, but none of them knew where safety was. Their only hope was escape, but the land was surrounded by neighbors who would not accept them.

  Dorsaw was pleading with a group of lawmakers. “We must find Adoki. He can bring back the dead. He can save us.”

  *****

  Fragile raised a chalice to his lips, sucking down the wine into his gullet.

  The ruckus from the cheers and hoots of the troll army was deafening. They had found an abandoned picnic area in the West to celebrate their newest victory. They were feasting on roasted pig parts and desecrating every symbol of Phaenix nature. A small shrine was torn to bits. A female garden was dug up and destroyed. Root houses were burnt to the ground. This was their land now.

  The sword trolls were bragging about the beheadings and slayings they achieved. The artist trolls explained in great detail the immolation of the Phaenix. The Sokratist bears were rewarded with giant hunks of doebeast. Urk, the general, was acting out a scene where he had disemboweled a warrior. Much to the chagrin of the soldiers, his story became more embellished.

  Ashen was sharpening his sword on a grinding stone away from the party. His white long blade was sullied on the sap of unworthy warriors. None of them were Mollet. His sword ached for the privilege of destroying that warrior. He closed his eyes and took in the glory of fighting such a warrior.

  Kashun was setting tall grass bushes on fire with a flick of his wrist. He snorted violently, arguing to himself.