Terror of the Shadow

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The wind was still hot. The heat of the sun was still unbearable. The burning sands stretched on as far as anyone could see, and undoubtedly much further, like an endless sea of golden death. This was the heart of the Malkuth Outland, and the Outland was never forgiving.

In other words, nothing had changed.

But in some ways, everything had.

Living and surviving as a member of any Malkuth tribe was, and always had been, an uphill battle. There was always some threat lurking just behind you, ready to kill. Whether that be a War'ack, the heat of the sun, dehydration, starvation, or incurable fever, it was all a part of the Shadow Man's curse over their lands.

But being a Malkuth meant that you were tough. Of course, it didn't mean that you weren't afraid; it only meant that you learned to live and love and laugh in spite of that fear. The Malkuth were a resilient people. But, more importantly, and above all else, the Malkuth had always been a happy people.

They were not a happy people anymore. And it all had to do with the bell that rang in the middle of the town square.

Dong... dong... dong... it rang. It rang like this every day. And when it rang, it was the only sound in the entire city. Everyone went silent.

The bell rang seven times. When the final echo had dissipated, all the people of the city turned back to their work. A few people wiped away tears.

"That's got to be the tenth time this week," Laban muttered.

"Eleventh," Aristarchus corrected.

"That's... too many."

"Mm," Aristarchus mumbled in reply.

"What are we supposed to do?" Laban asked. "I almost feel like I should be out there with them. It's not right that they're getting slaughtered out there and we're just sitting safe and sound under this shield."

Aristarchus didn't reply for a few moments. He took his wrench and tightened a few bolts holding together a piece of dented pipe. But those bolts were already tight. Laban knew because he had tightened them himself.

"We are doing all we can, Laban. We just need to finish this. Then maybe we will be able to help ourselves."

"It's been months since the War'acks came to the city. Since then, that bell rings every day. Why can't the elders just admit that they're actually a threat to us here? You're one of them. Can't you talk to them? Convince them to fight back!"

"You think I enjoy watching these people die?" Aristarchus snapped. He threw the wrench down onto the floor and clenched his hands into tight fists. His brow crumpled as he looked at Laban. This was the first time that Laban had ever seen the man show any sign of anger. And it was frightening.

"These men were my friends," he continued. "Some of them I treated like my own sons. Many of them I have known for their entire lives. I held them as babes. I watched them grow up from playful little boys into strong, honorable men. It isn't fair that these monsters should take their lives so soon. They deserved more than this. I wish with every fiber of my being, wetting the floor every night with my tears as I pray to Those Above, that the fighting will stop soon."

"These are War'acks, aren't they? They don't just stop fighting. Not until they're all dead... or we are."

Aristarchus leaned against the hull of the bullet craft and lowered his head. "I know," he said softly. "This war might happen whether we like it or not."

"We need to fight back," said Laban.

"That isn't my call to make," Aristarchus replied. "Nowadays, I'm just the crazy old mechanic... but it is no matter." He took a long, deep breath. "Let's get back to work. Have the carbonic filter units been reinstalled?"