Wavebreaker_Book II of the Stone War Chronicles_Part 1_Trickle

by A. J. Norfield

  Corza took the Roc’turr and cut deeply into the sole of each foot until a network of cuts ran from heel to toe. Bronson screamed, his voice turning hoarse as the pain dragged on.

  “What have we learned?”

  Bronson said nothing.

  “What have we learned?”

  Corza cut across both feet again. Bronson let out a cry.

  “That—that my life is over.”

  “Excellent! Well done. I knew something would stick eventually,” said Corza as he spun the wooden rack further, putting Bronson upside down. “But your life isn’t over; not yet. It just doesn’t belong to you anymore. From this day on, your life belongs to me, and only me. With every step you take, these scars you walk on will remind you that without me you would have no life.”

  Corza bent over to look at him upside down.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  Corza dangled his Roc’turr in front of the prince’s nose.

  “Yes, my life belongs to you…sir.”

  “Excellent!” exclaimed the high general. “But I’m afraid there isn't much sincerity in your voice.”

  Corza spun the rack so hard Bronson went two full circles before finding himself upright again.

  “Such balance,” Corza said, pleased. “You can see it is real craftsmanship.”

  The high general walked over to a small chest in the corner, opened the lid and started searching through it. Bronson saw scrolls being shuffled around, a book or two and the occasional dried plant.

  “Now, where was it? Ah, there it is!”

  Corza pulled a large glass jar from the chest and walked back to Bronson. After carefully opening the lid, he took a pair of pliers and pulled something from the jar.

  “Are you familiar at all with the animals on my continent, young prince?”

  Bronson slowly shook his head, his eyes glued to the small creature squirming in front of him.

  “There’s this creature called a kzaktor. Nasty things. Burrowing through the earth, larger than two men put together. All twisted legs and jaws. They can rip a horse and rider to pieces in an instant.”

  Bronson looked at the armored worm-like thing in front of him, barely a finger long and about as thick. Its dozens of little legs were thrashing through the air as it tried to free itself from the tool held firmly in Corza’s hand. It looked wet; white liquid oozed from between the tiny, hardened body segments.

  “Now, few people know this, but amazingly enough kzaktors start their lives above ground—or more accurately, in the trunks of particular trees. They burrow through the hardest wood during their pre-adult life before eventually dropping to the ground, where they change their diet to flesh.”

  Tiny jaws opened and closed as the little creature continued its efforts to escape.

  “Here; see this white moisture? They secrete some sort of acid, which stops the tree from bleeding as they burrow into the trunk. It’s quite nasty stuff.”

  Corza tilted Bronson forward, exposing his back.

  “I always wondered what would happen if I let one of them feast on flesh early.” Corza spoke calmly. “Now, I must warn you, I’m quite new at this—but I believe I can keep it from doing any real damage. I got the idea when I ran into an unexpected guest a while back. He’s quite a nuisance. In fact, you remind me of him.”

  Corza leaned in and moved the tiny kzaktor closer to Bronson’s back. The Prince of Iron stretched his belly forward, contracting all his back muscles to try and arch his spine away. The hairs on his neck rose as he sensed the pliers—and the creature—inching closer until he felt it slide across his back.

  Cold and wet, the sensation gave him little more than goosebumps at first. Relieved, he let out a sigh.

  Then came the pain. It burned worse than fire, as if his skin was being crushed between rocks and ripped apart at the same time.

  “Stop! Aaah, stop, stop, stop!”

  Corza paused, then ran a wet cloth across the acid trail. Immediately, the pain dissipated to a barely noticeable numbness.

  “You’re right,” said Corza. “We wouldn’t want it to burrow through your heart by accident. Let’s start with the legs.”

  “No! Stop! Why are you doing this? Why? I told you: my life is yours. There’s no need for this!”

  “My dear friend, it is true that you said so. But there’s a big difference between saying and believing. That look in your eye? It reeks of defiance.”

  Corza pressed the kzaktor hard against Bronson’s leg. The creature started digging immediately. As it broke through the skin and crawled inside, Bronson’s eyes widened until he was afraid they would pop out of his head. They blurred with tears as the pain took hold of him. His mouth stretched to scream, but the shock took his voice away. He jerked his arms and legs, thrashed harder against the frame than he had ever done before. The wood and leather cracked and creaked, but did not break.

  His captor’s hands applied pressure on his leg, steering the ferocious worm back and forth.

  “Look at it go," Corza laughed. "And it stays just beneath the skin. Completely unexpected!”

  When Bronson’s voice found its way back from oblivion, his screams went on and on. The intense agony of the tiny jaws ripping through his flesh filled his entire world, then the burning acid trail took that world of pain and set it ablaze. He wanted everything to be over. He was losing himself, he could feel it. He just needed everything to stop.

  “My life is yours! My life’s yours! My life is yourgggrh—”

  After that, his words morphed into unrecognizable screams and grunts. His own thoughts were driven from his mind, expelled by the pain.

  “That’s far enough,” said Corza as the tiny creature started to work its way up Bronson’s leg. “I don’t want to lose you inside all those intestines.”

  Corza doubted Bronson felt the quick jab of his Roc’turr in the path of the kzaktor. The prince hung weak in his restraints, dry-heaving. His breathing rasped in and out; tears and saliva dripped down to the floor.

  Using one hand for pressure to box it in and the other to work the pliers, Corza tried to get a hold of the squirming horror under the prince’s skin.

  “Slippery bugger,” commented the high general as he pushed the pliers deeper inside Bronson’s leg. “Almost…almost…got it! See? Nothing to worry about.”

  Corza stepped to the front and turned Bronson upright again. The high general proudly held the tiny kzaktor in front of Bronson’s face, only to realize the young prince slumped in his restraints, unconscious.

  Chapter 10

  Despair

  Water splashed against the side of the boat.

  “Dalkeira, where are you?” Trista said privately in her head.

  The dragon had been pulling them ashore when she suddenly darted off to chase after a “particularly juicy fish”.

  A couple of yards away, a big splash erupted from the water. Dalkeira broke the surface with a hard push of her tail, lifting herself clear of the water before opening her wings and beating them furiously to stay in the air. Having gained enough altitude, she leveled off her wings and glided over to their little boat. She came in a bit too fast and slammed down hard. Decan let out a startled cry and moved himself further away from the dragon. Dalkeira tried to conceal her clumsy landing by shaking off the water from her skin and presenting Trista with the large, thick and juicy-looking fish in her jaws.

  “Dinner,” she announced proudly.

  “You could’ve caught that after we reached the shore, you know,” said Trista, looking at the waves rolling onto the beach a hundred yards from their boat.

  “But by then it would have been long gone. Besides, we should eat now. We might not have time when we set foot on that beach.”

  This was true. While they had carefully steered toward a part of the coast that seemed utterly abandoned, there was no guarantee they would not encounter armed soldiers once on land.

  Dalkeira put t
he fish in Trista’s hands, who quickly took a bite after clearing the scales off the skin.

  “I saw some dangerous-looking rocks beneath the surface; we had best make sure the boat does not tip over,” said Dalkeira.

  “If that’s so, you'd best stay in the boat as well. I don’t want you to get cut up in the turmoil of the waves.”

  Trista ripped off another piece of fish as she regarded her quiet little brother.

  “Decan, come here. Take a bite,” said Trista.

  But her brother simply looked at her, remaining seated in the other end of the boat.

  “What is wrong with him? He has been like this ever since the first night we left,” said Dalkeira in Trista’s head.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he misses the island.”

  She was worried about him. She did not think it was leaving the island that was the problem. He was staying out of Dalkeira’s way as much as possible, avoiding looking directly at her whenever he could. Something had happened, and she expected Dalkeira killing Rudley had something to do with it.

  “Well, I certainly did not do anything to him,” said Dalkeira.

  “I never said you did…and what did I say about listening in on my thoughts?” Trista admonished.

  “I cannot help it that you think so loudly,” said Dalkeira.

  Trista rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

  “And on the matter of the goat, it had to be done,” continued Dalkeira, ignoring Trista’s silent reproof. “But I think it might have…broken something in your little brother?”

  It was more a question than a statement. Trista felt the dragon’s confused feelings flow over into herself. She knew Dalkeira had only acted on what she thought was best, but she wished it had not been necessary.

  The boat began to tilt as they entered the foaming surf near the beach. The waves were bigger than she had expected. Trista grabbed the oars; it was hard work, but nothing she had not done before in her father’s boat. As her muscles fought to keep control over the boat, she reached out to Dalkeira once more.

  “Maybe you should try and talk to him some time,” said Trista.

  “Why? It is not my fault. I never told him to be scared of me. His fear is his own.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t try to help him.”

  “I suppose that is true. I tried before, but I do not think he can understand me.”

  “Hold on,” Trista shouted at Decan as a large wave almost capsized the boat. She pulled like mad on her right oar to prevent the boat from spinning around and giving the rolling waves free rein over their flank. She strained to steer them toward the land that awaited their arrival.

  “Also, maybe now is not the time,” she added to Dalkeira.

  It was all she could say if she wanted to get the boat through the final stretch of waves—and onto the beach—in one piece.

  The plaza was packed with people. Those who did not want to attend were forced into doing so by the dark soldiers going from house to house. By the end of the morning, only citizens too sick to leave the house or able to find a good enough hiding place remained scattered throughout the city.

  High on the platform stood Corza, overseeing the crowd. In front of him, Lord Rictor wordlessly waited for the ceremony to begin. Below them, the Darkened formed a perimeter, assisted by two ghol’ms whose blue, smoking eyes quietly observed the masses while awaiting their orders.

  Doskovian soldiers coerced everyone closer to be in earshot of the oncoming announcement. For once, the chimneys in the city stopped smoking. No hammers fell on their anvils. No steel hissed in cold water. The city was quiet apart from the murmur of the people on the plaza.

  Next to Corza stood Bronson, hands hanging loosely at his sides. His face showed no expression as he observed the people below. He swayed softly, probably to give the soles of his feet as much relief as possible. Each step must be like walking on iron nails. He looked like he had been dragged back from the underworld.

  The queen and princess were also present, dressed in their nicest clothes. Corza observed them carefully. The queen held her head high, refusing to show weakness. The princess had more difficulty keeping herself composed. She constantly threw glances toward her brother’s bruised face. Bronson did not notice; from the numb expression on the tortured prince’s face, Corza suspected the young man did not notice much at all. He grinned at the worried look on the princess’ face, knowing there was nothing she could do about it.

  The murmur of the crowd intensified. Something was happening. From the castle a small group of men approached. The Doskovian soldiers made a path through the unwilling spectators and escorted the King of Iron to the scaffold. For the sake of the announcement, King Baltor had been released from his shackles and provided with a fresh new outfit, though it did little to hide his hollow eyes and skinny face. The sleepless nights and lack of food had quickly worn down the once powerful-looking King of Iron. Cries of pity and support rose from the spectators.

  Slowly, King Baltor climbed the stairs, visibly straining under the task. As he emerged on to the platform, Corza heard the queen’s sharp intake of breath. A tear spilled from one eye. She silently mouthed a few words to her husband.

  You make me proud, Corza read on her lips.

  Despite his weakened appearance, King Baltor’s eyes remained strong. He looked back at his wife before proceeding to the front of the platform.

  Corza noticed the defeated king glance briefly up toward the forest, high on the mountain. A crooked smile flashed across his face.

  Lord Rictor stepped forward and held out his left—human—hand. The murmurs from the crowd slowly died out, assisted by the soldiers who punched anyone not quick enough to fall silent. The entire city held its breath to see what came next.

  The Stone King surveyed the crowd: men, women, children and the occasional stray dog. He turned around and gestured Corza to the front.

  “Lend us your ears; your king addresses you,” bellowed Corza. Behind him, the King of Iron awaited his signal to come forward. With a smile, Corza beckoned the man.

  “Make it a good one, you old fool,” whispered Corza, so softly the others did not hear it.

  Corza saw anger flash across King Baltor’s face. Satisfied, he took a step back and let the King of Iron have the stage.

  “My dear, beloved people,” started King Baltor, then broke out in cough.

  His throat was so dry from lack of water that it took a while until the coughing subsided and the King of Iron was able to regain his voice.

  “My dear and beloved people,” he began again, his voice stronger than before. “I stand before you as a leader of proud people. Men and women who have learned to endure the challenges of hard labor. Who have grown and prospered by overcoming them, and take pride in what they have achieved.”

  Several voices rose up from the crowd to show their agreement. King Baltor took a moment to look back at his wife and children. His eyes froze when he noticed his son’s face for the first time. Anger ignited inside him again. How dare they hurt his child? He looked again toward the forests. There it was! White smoke. His troops had begun their attack and would be on their way toward the plaza.

  Just hold on a little longer, my son. Our friends will be here soon.

  “And now we are at a crossroads. Now, there is a choice to be made. And that choice will determine how you will live your lives. For they have offered us a place to work. To live and provide for your family. To live beneath them. They expect us to use our hammers and feed our fires, only to give them all the fruits of our hard labor. They do not respect us! They do not value us! All we are is a means to an end…as slaves!”

  The King of Iron stepped forward. Shouts from the crowd below grew in number. A few of the Doskovian soldiers shifted nervously, looking up at the platform to try and understand what was happening. King Baltor risked a glance at the Stone King; his face was hard.

  This is the moment they have been waiting for, King Baltor told himself. Now his sub
jects would pull out their weapons, smuggled onto the plaza. His speech would rally them into one force, surprising the outnumbered Doskovian soldiers who surrounded them.

  “But I choose not to live under their rule. I choose not to give in to their terror. For the iron pride is meant to be forged in the heart of fire. I say it is time we show these cowards, who let stone do their fighting for them, what such hearts of fire can do. Now pick up your weapons and regain our freedom! Show them that our iron pride and will may bend, but never break!”

  The crowd let out a roar. There was a stir amongst the crowd, some movement of people charging toward the edge of the plaza while women and children drifted toward the center, away from the fighting. But something was wrong.

  The numbers were completely off. According to Linus’ information, the resistance should have consisted of hundreds of people, fully armed with hammers, knives and even swords. But the King of Iron saw no weapons. The men who engaged the enemy soldiers were fighting barehanded, and without armor. He watched in horror as the Doskovian soldiers formed a line and immediately pressed forward, slashing and stabbing anyone who came too close.

  What have I done? Why are they not fighting?

  His people were being slaughtered by the dozens. Panic broke out amongst those who did not want to fight. The cry of children filled the air as the Talkarian people were pushed closer and closer together.

  Corza appeared beside him.

  “Well done, milord! I didn’t expect anyone to react, but your speech was very moving.”

  King Baltor stared, wide-eyed as the last remaining troublemakers were taken down with excessive force by one of the ghol’ms. Other soldiers poured onto the plaza, but they were not Talkarian. He turned his head toward the mountain road, wondering—hoping—for something he now dreaded would never come.

  “There never was any resistance, was there? No armed forces in the forest,” said the King of Iron.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Linus…”

  “It really wasn’t that hard. He seemed like a man—and I use that term very loosely—who would be up for the task, with a little persuasion.”