by N Felts
back and forth over her shoulders as she prances forward. Twisting through the energetic crowd, they spot Cale waiting at the center of the massive bridge spanning Ikana River toward the royal district of the city. Dignitaries and politicians come and go as they reach their friend, propped on his elbows at the bridges edge, staring thoughtfully into the water.
“Thank the Guardians,” Marta sighs, slapping a hand on Cale’s shoulder. “Some creep has been following me all morning. Can you deal with him Cale?”
“Been trying to for years,” he chuckles, humorlessly.
“Alas, she has fled my grasp, and conquered my heart,” Marta’s alleged stalker sighs, slapping his back to the carved stone next to their mutual friend. Tilting his head in Cale’s direction, he sees the same serious expression he had yesterday in the market. Realizing his jokes are not appreciated, he decides to be somewhat diplomatic for once, toning down the theatrics. “Why did we have to meet here?” He asks, failing to remove the irritation from his voice completely. A swift kick to the shin from Marta ensures he sees her angry glare before she rephrases for him.
“You wanted to show us something? What’s going on?” She asks, making a point to put on an interested face. Cale has become a recluse lately, and she seems to be the only person willing to reestablish the connection.
“That’s a mighty big wall they’re building,” Cale points out, turning to prop his back on the balustrade. “Been working rather feverishly on it.” Glancing toward the castle, his companions see a sizable crew hastily constructing a tall barrier in the formally open entrance.
“Yeah?” Marta nods, not understanding where he is going with the observation.
“You two hear about the ambassador who arrived today?”
“Actually I did overhear someone talking about him,” Marta recalls, touching her index finger to her chin. “While I was consoling Burnadette,” she adds with excessive attitude, and a glare to match.
“Marta!” The accused quickly interjects, briefly wearing a disgusted face. “Don’t change the subject. This is serious.” He insists, bouncing his unclenched fist off of Cale’s chest. “Sorry, Cale. Go on.” He adds, selling the pseudo-compassion well.
“Thanks,” Cale responds, sarcastically. A mocking face pulls an irritated sigh from Marta as she rolls her eyes at his immaturity before returning them to Cale. “He passed through town early this morning. Several people saw him enter the castle to talk with Igos, but no one saw him leave.”
“Wait, wait,” his friend interrupts, waving his arms in confusion. “Ambassador? From where?”
“He wasn’t wearing any sort of emblem or crest,” Cale shrugs, adding, “what he was wearing was a fancier version of the burqas the Subrosians wear in the market.”
“Oh no,” he immediately whines. “Not this a—“ he starts. Twisting her hips to prepare another kick, Marta isn’t quite quick enough as he leaps out of harms way. “Woman!” He threatens, pointing an accusing finger. Returning the gesture with far more tenacity, Marta waits until she is certain there won’t be any more interruptions, then returns her attention to Cale.
“Yeah, this again.” Cale admits, raising his arms outward, and clearly aggravated he is the only one putting the pieces together. “Spies in the woods. An ambassador goes missing. Now they’re fortifying the castle. How much evidence do you need?”
“Well first of all, the judicator’s are still out on the whole spies in the forest thing,” he quickly retorts, waving a dismissive hand.
“They’re stockpiling weapons and planning an assault. They don’t seem disciplined like our soldiers. Their leader held some kind of ceremony, like an initiation or something,” Cale ponders aloud, recalling the bizarre ritual clearly. “Which, again, you would know for yourself if you weren’t busy womanizing.”
“I feel like we keep drifting from the topic at hand,” he carefully responds, adjusting his posture uncomfortably. “The ambassador just arrived today, and what, we’re assuming him dead just like that?”
“Let me guess, Igos is fortifying the castle entrance because he’s sick of the view?” Cale interjects, his patience wearing thin. “When are you going to wake up? There are big things happening here!”
“We’re not saying you’re wrong.” Marta insists, futilely attempting to deescalate the situation.
“I am,” her egotistical friend blurts out under his breath.
“Stop it!” Marta shouts, jabbing him in the shoulder. “He’s your friend. You could at least hear him out.” A desire to impress her more so than a dutiful compulsion to his friend leads him to his delayed response.
“Okay, you’re right,” he meekly admits, yielding to her authority. “I’m sorry, Cale.” He declares, miming with open hands as if he were setting the apology atop an invisible table. “I’m just not convinced. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve come up with one of these,” he pauses, searching for the phrase. “Conspiracy theories.”
“Yeah,” Marta sighs, wagging her head briefly to let the concept settle. “Got to side with him on that one.”
“Fair enough,” Cale points out, bowing slightly with open arms. “I’m just saying, it’s worth looking into. I mean,” he starts, palming his brow for a moment. “If I’m wrong, I’ll own it.” He explains, holding up a single finger for the next line. “But if I’m right, and we don’t do anything,” he pauses, exhaling depressingly as he considers the outcome. “This could get bad. People could die just because Igos wants to open that stupid tower. I’m not saying we should listen to the preachers, but we should at least find out what his actual motivation is.” Searching his friends faces for any sign of concurrence, he slowly turns and starts out of the area when he finds nothing but unfiltered skepticism. Considering her options, Marta follows him back toward the residential district at the same unhurried pace. Lost in her winding curves, the most incredulous of the group follows suit, but his thoughts rest solely on schemes to coax Marta back to his house.
“You’d better hold my hand,” a mother insists, her carefree child frolicking just out of arms reach. “If you fall in the river the Octoroks will eat you up,” she warns with a wry grin.
“No!” the kid whines, snatching her hand in a death grip. Despite the discord within their group, the afternoon enjoys a particularly somber ambiance. The strong, steady rush of water far beneath them sounds as calming as the gentle breeze feels in the mild air. Further ahead, a growing crowd of people encircle an indistinguishable individual. The gathering emits excited cries and waves of laughter as the trio draws closer. Picking up the pace, Cale’s intrigue pulls him through the crowd with his companions close behind. Random shouts from the crowd illicit increasingly angry responses from the man at the nexus of the spectacle. Finally reaching the center, the three friends find a hooded figure energetically arguing with the mob.
“You will be cursed by the divine! The sacrilegious will be purged in a holy retribution this world has yet to witness!” The figure shouts, pointing to random members of the crowd threateningly. His deep, raspy voice makes it all too clear he is another Subrosian fanatic, their activity having multiplied since King Igos’ announcement regarding the tower.
“Why do the guards let these people do this?” A woman asks, shaking her head.
“Well he’s not hurting anyone,” another woman shrugs.
“The goddesses of creation will not tolerate your blasphemy any longer!” The preacher insists, his unique, all-concealing robe shrouding his face in shadow as he rants.
“Maybe one of your she-gods will come down and sit on me!” A man declares with a laugh. “That’s how I’d like to go.”
“Stop,” a woman gasps, chuckling to herself as she clamps a hand over his mouth. “You’re terrible,” she muses, removing her hand to find a satisfied smile plastered on his face. Gradually losing interest, several people wander from the scene, the exhibition failing to amuse them any longe
r. The guards posted at the bridge begin to make their way toward the crowd as the commotion begins to escalate.
“Will you not repent?” The figure pleads, looking from face to face. More insults and heckling fall upon him like an avalanche. “Do you think you are safe from their divine wrath behind these pathetic walls? Do you?” He asks, pointing directly at Marta. The ambiguous visage cloaked beneath the heavy hood seems to stare into her for an instant before he turns his rage to another random individual. “You will find nothing but darkness in your degenerate ways,” he asserts, desperate to convince anyone listening. “If you will not change, there is naught but death,” he declares, hitting a dark and heavy tone with the final phrase.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Marta whispers, a cold chill running down her spine.
“She’s right,” Cale chimes in, turning to face his friends. “We should go. Now.” Dropping to his knees, the figure assumes a deflated pose, his hands resting limply on his thighs. His shouting concluded, he speaks in a barely audible tone as the pair of guards reach the center of the crowd to escort him out of the area.
“And so I die, leaving no corpse,” he breathes, his tone changing. Suddenly peaceful.
“What’s that about a corpse?” A man asks, leaning in and cupping a hand to his ear.
“Did he say die?” Another man asks, his laughter drawing down as his brow sharpens.
“Alright, friend,” one of the guards starts, prodding the figure with his boot. “Fun’s over. Let’s go.” The shouts and commotion seem to fade down as Cale and Marta attempt to push past their friend, still staring at the figure as he lifts his head. A sixth sense stabs into his gut and stretches through his extremities when he senses violent intentions radiate through him suddenly. Without hesitation, he grabs both his friends around the waist as the figure’s eyes glow a faint green, squeezing them tightly as his tattoo suddenly glows intensely.
“Hugh!” Cale grunts, not expecting the sudden embrace.
“What are you—“ Marta squeals, assuming it to be an uninvited advance.
“This is the way of the Garo,” the figure vows, the words pressing into the audiences ears the instant before their senses are utterly overwhelmed. A massive pillar of flame spins out of the hooded figure’s form in a rapid vortex of destruction, churning rapidly at first, then slowing as it reaches its climax. Both Cale and Marta enter a state of shock as a profound silence ensues, the hungry waves of fire enveloping them while their own panicked breaths become the only thing their ears can perceive. As quickly as it started, the tornado of death dissipates upward, the flames dissolving and dying in a wholly unnatural way. The smoke slowly clears to reveal the disturbing massacre, and the sole survivors clinging to one another within a translucent orb of protection.
“What?” Marta gasps, choking on her words as emotion overwhelms her.
“No,” Cale breathes, breaking free of his friend’s exhausted embrace and stumbling back a step as the protective shell vanishes. A sharp sizzling sound followed by a sting of pain causes him to recoil, spinning around to find the charred corpse he briefly collided with. The men and women ironically stand frozen, each of them futilely attempting to flee or shield themselves from certain death. A ring of formerly lively people, now stand stamped into eternity by a zealot with a suicidal grudge.
“This,” Marta chokes out, the intense heat and horrid smell all but paralyzing her. “It can’t—“ she breathes, her eyes drifting to find those of her savior. Such simple conjurations should be kept taught, he recalls, cursing his greatfathers lessons every day of his life until this moment. A foreign magic of immense power leaves him standing here, staring into Marta’s eyes, utterly speechless. Finally tearing his gaze from hers, he surveys the mannequin-like statues, still sporadically glowing a fading red as their charred flesh hardens and darkens into a stone-like permanence. At ground zero, the two soldiers weren’t even granted an instant to react, their scorched forms still reaching toward the space where the figure once resided.
“Leaving no corpse,” Cale mutters aloud, his eyes fixated on the same spot as his friends.
“Way of the Garo,” he recalls after a moment, grabbing Cale’s attention.
“Garo,” Cale repeats, falling to a knee and palming the ground for balance.
“You’ve heard it before?” He states more than asks, his voice warbling as his desensitized mind gradually accepts the sheer gravity of the situation. Marta simply stares in disbelief as they converse, unable to pull a sentence from her throat. Sensing her fragility, her friend moves closer and tilts her head into his chest, lightly stroking her hair as she clings onto him absently. After a couple difficult breaths, Cale climbs to his feet and responds.
“The spies,” he starts, his stare drifting to the ground. “In the forest… That cloak they wear,” he pauses, recalling the ritual all too clearly. “They called it the Garo Robe.”
Balance
“Good.” The teacher asserts, prompting his students to pause in their training. “That’s enough for today. Those of you who plan to attend the ceremony, I expect you will remain vigilant.” With that, the bulk of the students disperse their semicircle about their most promising peer, several conversing about the coming event. The lone pupil subjected to the barrage of his classmates drops to a seated position, catching his breath while returning the few nods of respect he receives. The suicide attack one week prior shook the citizens of Ikana to their core, though the declaration of war which followed affected the kingdom no more than a change in temperature. Being one of the sole survivors, he feels as though he came to understand what his greatfather was attempting to teach him all these years. Soon after, he decided he must become stronger. Watching all of those people perish before his eyes while he was only just strong enough to survive, it tossed a stone into the center of his soul, and the ripples continue to pulse through him even now. He will train. He will become stronger than even his greatfather. He must never feel powerless at the hands of a foe again. It is a feeling he cannot bear.
“Your drive is every bit as impressive as it is worrying,” his instructor conveys, standing over him and offering a hand. “Your friends have come to me, unable to locate you for days on end.”
“There are more important things now,” he replies, his gaze distant.
“Your training is of the mind, the body, and the spirit,” his greatfather insists, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Suppressing one will sharpen the others, but true mastery,” he starts, leading the way out of the barracks. “True mastery is an acute balance of all three. A table will stand on two legs, but it is all too easy to topple over. Spend some time with those who are important to you, and in time, you will find your balance.”
“Okay,” he agrees after some thought. A reprieve from his training is a welcome idea, his every waking moment since that fateful day consumed by thoughts of advancing his skill. All too familiar with diving into new experiences head first, he now realizes he will certainly burn himself out at this reckless pace. A kind smile sees him on his way, but all the time he walks, new and profound concepts swirl through his mind regarding his craft. Abandoning the elements threw him much deeper into the world of conjuration. What began as nothing more than willing thoughts of simple objects into existence has drastically grown into unfathomable concepts of precisely how these ethereal entities relate and interact with the real world. He has learned how to meld tangible objects, but in theory, the same could be done to a man or beast. Speaking strictly in alchemical terms, there is merely a difference in component between steel and stone, and flesh and blood. Such things are dangerous and forbidden, his greatfather made this much clear, but he now lives in a dangerous time. Considering the prospects must be essential for him to evolve his understanding, but with all manner of practice shunned as taboo, he can only wonder what exactly is possible. Before he realizes it, he has wandered into the market district, but wi
th the festival hour drawing near, it is uncharacteristically empty.
“I don’t even recognize you,” Cale chuckles, staring in humorous disbelief.
“You’re becoming stealthy lately,” he smirks, finally spotting his friend seated atop a rug boutique.
“No you’re becoming oblivious lately.” Cale laughs, springing from his ascended viewpoint to greet his friend. “What’s with the constant contemplation anymore?”
“You were there,” he sighs after a moment, not wanting to deflate the mood.
“Yeah, I was,” Cale grins, socking his friend in the shoulder. “And now I’m still here because of you, or should I say because of that stubborn old man who twisted your arm until you learned how to magic?” He jokes, wiggling his fingers as if casting a spell.
“Thank you just isn’t in your vocabulary is it?” He grins, shaking his head.
“That’s as close as you’re going to get. Take it or leave it,” Cale shrugs, maintaining his positive attitude.
“Going to the ceremony?” He asks as they leisurely stroll through the quiet market.
“Honestly I couldn’t care less. Won’t be eventful I don’t think. They rounded up the last of the Subrosians yesterday and security is tighter than Marta’s—“ he pauses, his cheerful tone collapsing as he fails to consider his words. They both stop in their tracks with the revelation and share a depressing sigh.
“Have you talked to her?”
“She won’t see anyone. Hasn’t left her house since it happened,” Cale points out, scratching his head. “She might reconsider if you—“
“She won’t,” he interrupts with a deep breath. “I think I just remind her, you know?”
“No, I don’t,” Cale insists, prodding his friends chest with a stiff finger. “You should try to talk to her.”
“We’ll see,” he murmurs with a leave-it-at-that sort of tone. Subconsciously following the growing commotion, the duo soon find themselves crossing the bridge into the royal district. Massive murals and streaming banners flood the open air, the patriotic orgasm of propaganda overwhelming to even the most stalwart citizen. The vast majority of the city crowds the western wall of the castle parameter for the opening of the Stone Tower, King Igos Du Ikana’s newfound symbol of victory over fear, and Ikanian dominance. The colossal structure consisting of three perforated, cylindrical pylons can be seen from Southern Swamp all the way to Snowhead Mountain in the north. Rumors of its origin span from the four guardians themselves to creatures from another world, no historical text detailing anything beyond the
