Shadow Tree (12 page)

Chapter 19: The Obelisk

“You can't talk to me like that,” the teenage boy replied. His words sounded tough, but his voice betrayed his fear. He stared at the powerfully-built man who was walking towards him with unmistakable menace. At that moment, it didn't seem to matter that he commanded so many children.

Alfonso Perplexon, the teenager who had morphed into this 20-something man, approached the boy in a manner he had seen played out in playgrounds all his life. Only this time, he wasn't the victim or the bystander. He was the bully. He knew exactly how to act: keep moving, keep talking, keep threatening. Push once, shift your weight, curl your hands into fists.

“I can talk to you however I want,” Alfonso sneered. As he moved towards the boy, he raised his hand high above his head, ready to strike. The boy flinched and most importantly, the children surrounding them moved back.

He looked at the ground and saw Marta lying there. Her eyes were wide and surprised. She seemed as shocked as the children were. Alfonso approached her, picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and walked to the door of the Tower. He put her down to investigate the door further.

It looked absolutely impregnable. The door itself was covered with rusted iron plates, and two spyholes were hammered shut from the inside. He threw his weight against the door. It didn't move an inch.

“You can't open it,” said the teenager.

Alfonso turned around. The teenager had come up behind him and was standing just a few feet away. Behind him were the children. Their expressions had changed from fear into something different. Interest, perhaps. Or perhaps even a little confidence. The element of surprise was now gone, and they realized that they were unharmed. Alfonso knew he had to do something quickly.

His eyes traveled across the perimeter of the door, looking for anything that might indicate a way in. There was a keyhole, but it had been filled in or jammed. Something was covering it
perhaps a piece of wood or metal, but there was no way of inserting a key into it. And it wasn't as if others had not tried. The weak sun lit up the area around the keyhole and highlighted a profusion of faint scratches.

“He's going to leave us!” screamed the teenager. “Just like the other grown-up did!”

Alfonso didn't turn around. Instead, eyed the bottom of the door and had his first glimmer of hope. It was the only part of the door that was not covered with metal. About four inches of wood was exposed, starting where it touched the ground. This narrow band ran the width of the door. More importantly, a few areas in this band looked dark in contrast to the rest. Alfonso leaned down and poked inquiringly at the dark areas. They were soft. Alfonso was reminded of building tables and cabinets with Pappy back in World's End. They built most of the greenhouse storage cabinets by themselves. Rotting wood was always a concern for them, and he had become very good at identifying where it had appeared.

“Pick up your stones!” yelled the teenage boy.

Alfonso could hear a rustling of movement behind him. He was running out of time.

Alfonso crouched down and poked again at the bottom of the door. He nodded as if satisfied and stood up. Alfonso paused, took a deep breath, and then kicked the bottom of the door as hard as he could. The blow landed squarely on the darkened, rotted area. He crouched down again to examine the effect. He nodded, and kicked that part of the door over and over. His last kick was so
forceful that he fell to the ground.

But it worked. The door cracked open, right up the center, and then clattered to the ground. There was a collective gasp from the crowd of children behind him.

“He's found a way in,” said a little girl.

“Is there food inside?” asked a little boy.

As calmly as he could, Alfonso rose to his feet, spun around and said, “Follow me children, let's see what's inside.” And amazingly, they obeyed as calmly as school children on a field trip. Only the teenager remained. Alfonso eyed him coolly and then said, “Come if you want, but your days as king are done.”

Chapter 20: The Last Threat

The polar reaches of upper Asia are wide and long and empty of human life. Winds routinely reach hundreds of miles an hour, and in the darkest of the winter, to be outside for longer than a half-hour is to court a swift death. Everything is in short supply: food, vegetation, light, life.

And yet in this desolation, Nartam had created the last refuge of the Dragoonya.
Dargora.
The city was surrounded by a vast petrified forest and in the center of this forest was a great ice field where the city itself was situated. Everything in the city was white – either because it was made of snow, ice, or bleached bones – and the result was that, from a distance, the city was almost impossible to see under the bright glare of the sun. It was only truly visible at dawn and at dusk, when the light was soft, allowing the human eye to discern the subtleties in many various shades of white.

On most days, there was not much to see. The slaves all lived in barracks that were situated underground. The most dramatic feature of Dargora were several giant pillars. These pillars, which rose up from the earth and stretched into the clouds, often swayed and groaned in the wind as if they were still part of a living being. In addition, there were a few buildings scattered here and there, all made of ice. And then, of course, there was the Great Cave.

The Great Cave was the original location of Dargora. Hollowed out by the grinding of glaciers, the cave was spacious, protected from the wind, and surprisingly comfortable. Nartam had outfitted the place with an abundance of fur rugs and copper urns lit with brightly burning fires. Nartam even had a throne here, as well as several long rows of tables and chairs. And nowadays the Cave also had another benefit as well: it offered a perfect view of the newly-planted Shadow Tree, which sat just a hundred or so feet from the mouth of the Cave.

Nartam and Kiril were standing in the Great Cave, chatting quietly. Behind them, deeper within the cave, several dozen Dragoonya officers and noblemen were seated at tables. In years past, the Dragoonya leaders gathered here to feast – consuming great quantities of roasted pig, fried whale, grilled reindeer, and ice wine. Today, however, no food was being served. There were just bowls and bowls and bowls of black ash. The men seated at the table were not singing, or talking, or even whispering. They were all sitting motionless, simply staring off into the space. They almost looked like figures at a wax museum – life-like, but too still to be real. The men using the ash had all lost their hair and their fingernails but, other than this, they appeared quite healthy-looking. Occasionally, one of them would extend an arm, scoop up a pinch of black ash, and rub it into their eyes. This was the only sign that they were alive.

“Have you tried it?” asked Kiril.

“Yes of course,” said Nartam. He was dressed in furs that were far too big for him. All of Nartam's clothing was too big for him these days. They had been designed for a full-grown man – not a sixteen year old boy – and the shirt sleeves and pant sleeves hung down from his limbs. “But unlike these greedy fiends,” he said gesturing to his officers, “I have taken it gradually – a little more with each dose – and that is why I still have my hair, my nails, and my wits about me.”

“That's sensible,” said Kiril. “You are taking the proper dose, but these other fools have lost their senses and overdosed.”

“It's true that they have become poor conversationalists,” said Nartam, “But they are splendid fighters, and when ordered, they will fight with an inhuman ferocity, as if their lives and the lives of their loved ones hang on the outcome. I have been letting the men use it twice a day. Any more than that and they'd be worthless. One of them demanded more, and I had to put a sword to his throat in order to talk him down.”

“I see,” said Kiril. “Don't you worry that others will demand more as well? How do you keep them in line?”

“I planted the Shadow Tree,” said Nartam with a smile. “And that makes me the Tree's father, and theirs. It is incredible to see, but they will do anything for me. Plus, I have you as a failsafe, just in case anything untoward happens. Isn't that so?”

“Of course,” said Kiril.

Kiril glanced back at the cave opening. It was small, and from the outside no one could guess at the cathedral-like space of the Great Cave that existed just beyond the opening. But it was not the opening that Kiril was looking at. Just beyond it, in a bare patch of carefully swept ground, stood the Shadow Tree. Its smooth, oily bark reflected the many torches and candelabras that lit up the Great Cave. To one side of the tree, a giant bonfire raged. A few Dragoonya climbed carefully up and down the tree using a metal ladder. They sawed off limbs and tossed them into the fire. Each time they did so, the fire crackled and whined, as if afraid. And on the ground next to the fire was a mound of black ash, growing higher and higher with each burned limb. The tree itself didn't seem to mind. It was constantly in movement, its branches twisting like the restless legs of a centipede.

“Kiril, my dear son, you look troubled,” said Nartam. “Pray tell me, why?”

“The black ash,” said Kiril finally. “It presents certain... dangers.”

“True,” said Nartam thoughtfully, “But that is only because it is so powerful and, whoever controls this power, will control everything within his grasp.”

“Perhaps,” said Kiril, “But do you control this Tree – or does it control you?”

Nartam laughed.

“Why do you laugh?” asked Kiril.

“Because it makes no difference,” said Nartam. “We are one now – the Tree and I.”

Kiril made no reply, except a slight frown.

“I am unused to seeing you afraid,” said Nartam.

“Perhaps a little fear would behoove us,” replied Kiril.

“No,” said Nartam, “Fear is what we must instill in others – not in ourselves. If we allowed it to fester, fear and self-doubt would be our undoing.”

“If you say so, father.”

“Come,” said Nartam. “Why don't you have just a pinch of the black ash – it will ease your mind.”

Kiril hesitated. Just several days before, Nartam had made it clear that Kiril should never touch the stuff.
So why was he offering it now? Was this Nartam speaking or was it the Tree?

“Maybe some other time,” replied Kiril politely.

“As you like,” said Nartam. “You know,” he said, taking a step closer to Kiril, “In the past I have been hard on you, I have wounded you, I know, but it was only to make you stronger. You understand that don't you?” There was genuine tenderness in his voice as he said this, which was exceedingly rare for Nartam. “I hope you do, my son.”

Kiril rubbed his cheek, momentarily surprised that his scar had vanished. He wanted to say something more, perhaps something pleasant and friendly, but words escaped him.

Instead, he bowed low.

“I will need you in the coming days and weeks,” said Nartam. His eyes grew wide and stared into the distance. It was a strange expression, and one that made Kiril uncomfortable.

“We shall have visitors soon,” said Nartam ominously.

“Leif and his son?” inquired Kiril.

Nartam nodded. “Most likely they are on their way. Of course, the Founding Trees know what's happening – they understand, in their own way, that the roots of the Shadow Tree will kill them. The trees will struggle with each other and we, inevitably, will be pawns in their delicate game of chess.”

Nartam smiled with a sudden excitement, and his eyes bored into Kiril's. “My son, it is a thrilling experience, to understand the Shadow Tree the way I do.
To be a part of it!
It is a wonderful, wonderful thing...”

Kiril cut him off. It was unnerving to listen to Nartam speak so passionately. His father had always been a coolly rational man, devoted only to the accomplishment of goals and ideas. “How will they attempt to destroy the Shadow Tree?”

“The same way that Imad did,” replied Nartam. “By using the Foreseeing Pen.”

“Daros,” said Kiril. “I know where the Pen is.” He watched Nartam's immediate interest blossom across his face. “I believe that it is
here
– in Dargora.”

“Don't toy with me,” said Nartam.

“I'm quite serious,” said Kiril, “Alfonso had the Pen, but he gave it to the girl – the one whom we once employed – Resuza.”

“You're sure?”

“Fairly certain,” replied Kiril.

“Hmm,” said Nartam. “Can you find her? I believe she has a sister, a girl named Naomi, if I recall, she was briefly your slave – isn't that so?”

Kiril was astonished; Nartam never forgot anything.

“Naomi is dead,” said Kiril. The lie came to Kiril's lips so quickly that he never even had a chance to consider why exactly he'd said it or what trouble it might bring. Somehow he just sensed that it might be better for Naomi if everyone, including Nartam, thought she was dead. He did not want her becoming a pawn. “But don't worry,” added Kiril quickly, “I believe I have already found Resuza. For the moment, I won't say more – just know that I hope to have the Pen for you within the coming days.”

Nartam smiled. “My son, my son, you are indeed a-”

Just then, two of the Dragoonya seated at the long table stood up suddenly and looked about anxiously. Both men were bald. Their entirely-white eyes were bloodshot. In unison, they began clawing at their eyes, as if their retinas were burning, but because their fingers had no nails they did not scrape themselves too badly.

“Stop it!” barked Nartam irritably, “Before you succeed in gouging out your eyes.”

Kiril shook his head and sighed. Grown men clawing at their eyes were the least of the problems that lay ahead, given the highly potent and addictive nature of the black ash, and it concerned Kiril that Nartam did not sense this.
You must be the one man who always sees everything clearly
, Nartam had told him.
But what was he supposed to do about what he saw?

“You haven't told me why you brought him,” said Nartam, as he pointed over to a corner of the cave where a large man lay unconscious on the ground. It was Bilblox. He had been that way for hours, barely moving. He was going through withdrawal and Nartam knew that the longshoreman must be in a great deal of pain. “You must have a reason.”

Kiril was ready for the question.

“I came across him on the shores of the Sea of Clouds,” replied Kiril. “He was nearly dead and I left him there. Several hours later, I was struck by a thunderclap of images brought on by taking the Jasber Ash.”

Nartam nodded. Kiril could tell that the Dragoonya leader was pleased.

“I know these dreams,” said Nartam. “And Bilblox was in them?”

“Only in one,” Kiril replied. “In that dream, you were falling into an abyss. He saved you.”

Nartam stared blankly at Bilblox. “He saved me?”

“Yes,” Kiril lied. He held his breath and cursed himself for the first lie about Naomi that then led to this second lie. It was a bad idea, but it was too late.

“Well,” said Nartam, “If that is the case, then I want Bilblox at my side at all times.”

“At all times... but why?” asked Kiril, with a trace of uneasiness in his voice. “If my dream tells the future, isn't it just a matter of letting fate run its course?”

“No, not at all,” said Nartam. “The moment that you had this dream of yours, you acted upon what you saw –
you brought Bilblox here because of that dream
– and when you did that, you altered the course of fate. It may still happen exactly as you foresaw in your dream, but it may not. In any case, I don't want to take any chances, so I insist on keeping Bilblox nearby so he is there whenever I may need him.”

Kiril nodded, but said nothing. Suddenly he had a problem that he had not anticipated. He had lied to Nartam, but because of this lie Nartam now wanted Bilblox at his side at all times, which meant that Bilblox might not be there to save Naomi at the crucial moment. Kiril had made a mistake and he saw no immediate way to undo it.

“You are truly skilled,” Nartam said. “To turn a man like Bilblox
into a slave takes unparalleled skill.

“Thank you,” said Kiril. He bowed deeply. “You taught me everything, father.”