Vanya's Journals, Chapter 31: Repressed RageThis is a cardboard-bound journal. All craftsmanship is of standard quality. You wonder where Vanya was as she was writing it, and how she had enough time on her hands to recount her journeys in such great detail. Nothing she wrote answers your many questions, nor is any of it marked with dates; only that five-pointed star. Scylk was right: I needed to return to Spearbreakers, even if Talvi was going to try to kill me again. I still need to go back, really... and someday, I will. I hope it won't be long until I can... everything I knew and loved was there, not here. It was a cruel place, and there were people there I didn't like, and many that didn't like me... but the good always seemed to outweigh the bad. Then again... perhaps I just see it as better simply because I'm not there anymore. I've had plenty of time to think about that, and many other things...
Over the next few months, I began to notice more and more about my captors. They had an ashen-gray color to their skin, or "chitin", and I could start to tell them apart when I looked carefully. Some had slightly mottled appearances; others had subtle stripes running down their neckstalks or legspikes. Warmaster Scylk was a darker shade of gray, and he had a deep, dark scar on the back of his right armscythe, almost like a burn that had never gone away.
The schedule was even simpler than the one I'd experienced in the employment of Mr Frog: wake up, eat, walk, eat again, and sleep. If the scythods smelled humans or dwarves on the wind, we burrowed under the ground and waited. When they heard soldiers walking overhead, they would burst out from under the enemy's feet and kill whomever they could find, just as quickly and efficiently as they'd done with the Ballpoint soldiers who had almost killed me. The scythods
loathed their enemies, relishing the thought of destroying them, and they always treated the commanders cruelly, to the point it seemed they extracted a sort of deviant pleasure from torturing them. It didn't matter if it was Ballpoint, Parasol, or even a passing caravan. They sought to destroy any human or dwarf they could find, with an almost religious passion.
I spent a lot of time with Scylk as we traveled, talking to him through John, during the long marches. For some reason, he seemed softer towards me than anyone else. I received an almost preferential treatment from the others because of it.
Not having much else to do besides walk, I slowly began learning their language... it's not that hard, really; it's simpler than dwarven, but it conveys its meaning very well. Sadly, I couldn't manage to master speaking it. My clicks all sound the same when I try. John helped me sometimes after we'd made camp, trying to teach me. I didn't mind, really. He had a higher-pitched voice that was pleasant to listen to, and I was grateful for the help.
~~~
It was dark that night... The clouds above us hid the moon and stars, and the only light we had was our little campfire. To my left I could hear the chattering of scythods as they told each other stories, but outside the ring of firelight, everything was as if enveloped in a black mist.
John sat down on the other side of our little campfire, resting his back against a dead tree that seemed to shiver with the cold as it felt his touch. "No, it's
'kylk'," he told me, laughing. "
Kylk. Say it again."
I frowned, furrowing my brow in frustration. "That's what I've
been saying!
Kylk! Kylk! What am I doing wrong?" I had every reason to be frustrated: I'd been trying for fifteen minutes.
He leaned forwards, shaking his hands in emphasis. "
Cylk! You're saying 'cylk' – 'club' – not 'kylk'! 'Kylk' means
'grip'. It's very different."
"I can hear the difference, but it sounds the same when I say it," I protested, rubbing my hands together and holding them closer to the fire to warm my fingers.
"That's because you're not putting your teeth into it, and your 'kh' sound isn't hard enough," he explained. He always made it sound easier than it was. "Try it again."
I shook my head in resignation. "Maybe some other time. How did
you get to be so good, anyway? Did Ballpoint put the knowledge into your head or something?" I smiled, waiting for the inevitable reaction.
It brought a grimace from him, as mentioning Ballpoint always did, and he shook his head firmly. "No, I learned it on my own before Ballpoint ever found me."
""You've never mentioned your time before Ballpoint before," I said, scooting closer to the fire.
John seemed to deflate, his mood ebbing away. "Well... um..." he hesitated, staring off into the darkness. "There's really not that much to tell."
"I'm sure there is," I prompted him. Then I stopped, watching his face quietly, and finally, on an uncomfortable note: "You seem like you feel guilty about it..."
John grimaced again and gave a single nod. "It's not something I like to remember..." With a clear sigh, he slumped against the tree, staring into the fire, and began his story.
"Ten or so years ago, I lived in a large human settlement bordering an elven forest far to the northwest of here. We farmed throughout the year and offered the produce as tribute to the elves. In exchange, they let us live, and... only ate a couple of us. It was hard, but it was life. We didn't know anything different."
I felt ashamed of my heritage, and opened my mouth to speak, but John had expected it: he was already dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "Don't apologize," he said. "I know you're ashamed of being an elf, but it's not your fault. I don't hold it against you. Not everyone of a race are the same, after all..."
I nodded silently in agreement at this last, and waited for him to continue.
Finally, he did. "One night, I was I that was wandering outside the town border. I'd lost a friend – Niwira – to one of the elves' war tigers, and I wanted revenge – but instead of revenge, I found Chiktylk.
"A scythod name," I noted.
John nodded, looking up at the stars thoughtfully. "Chiktylk was the first I'd ever seen, or even heard of. He'd fallen from a cliff and broken his leg, but I could tell from the start that he was intelligent. He was weak from starvation – I brought him food, set his leg, let him heal, and as the months passed, I gradually learned his language... He grew to respect me, and in return for saving him, he helped me hunt down and kill the tiger that had killed Niwira. Revenge was sweet, but that feeling didn't last long."
"You felt guilty about it?" I guessed.
Chuckling dryly, John shook his head. "Not really. The war tiger happened to be the favorite pet of one of the elves' druids. The elves retaliated, sending soldiers our direction down the forest road. The townsfolk saw them from afar and panicked. They
cursed me when they found out what I'd done, but when I showed them Chiktylk... how sharp his scythes were, how agile and fast he was, how tough his chitin... they rallied. Using me a translator, Chiktylk armed my friends with whatever we could find – hoes, shovels, knives, pitchforks, scythes – and we readied for battle. Chiktylk had lost his tribe on Piscyth to Ballpoint, and he wasn't willing to let the same thing happen to us. 'It is better to die than to be a slave to another's will,' he told us, and it became our war cry: 'Death before slavery'."
Pausing, John grimaced, his voice taking on emotion. "The elves didn't spare a thing... They sent their entire army out for us. Arrows gushed from the sky, blotting out the stars. Our families hid in the houses, and arrows fell through the thatched roofs. But even as our recruits cowered in fear, Chiktylk stood firm, as if relishing the feel of combat. The elves' wooden arrows couldn't pierce his chitin, and he rushed forwards, massacring them as if they were made of straw. They fled, screaming in terror... Though we'd lost many people, we'd won."
"The town hailed Chiktylk as a hero, but he announced, through me, that the victory had spurred his resolve, and he wanted to return to his own kind. Our makeshift army volunteered unanimously to accompany him across the blood plains, to defend him from the spawn... but we never even made it that far."
John stopped, staring through the fire into the distance. After several minutes, he sighed, and went on. "It was less than two weeks in... Ballpoint attacked us in the night. Some of us escaped, but Chiktylk didn't make it – they executed him at gunpoint before he could even approach. Ballpoint told us that we'd seen more than we should have, and that if we wanted to live, we'd join them... But not one person quavered, chanting 'death before slavery'. One by one, Ballpoint went down the line, executing people I'd known my entire life..." His voice broke, and he turned away. "And then they came to me."
I put my hand on his arm and spoke softly, trying to comfort him. "You didn't want to die, John..."
He shook his head violently, brushing his eyes roughly with the back of his arm. "No," he managed, choking with emotion as he spoke through clenched teeth. "I betrayed Chiktylk, I betrayed my town, and even betrayed my own family. I served with Ballpoint for
seven years as a contractor, moving with their armies and wiping out the enemies of the highest bidder. It's what they do. It doesn't matter if it's women and children, it doesn't matter if it's a monastery or nursing home – if the people paying Ballpoint's checks ask for it, Ballpoint does it. They don't have any allegiances other than money and themselves."
"I'm sorry, John," I whispered, shaking my head listlessly. "It's okay; it wasn't your fault."
His own name seemed to anger him, and he got abruptly to his feet, scowling. "No, it's
not okay," he said, his volume steadily increasing. "My recon squad got attacked by scythods on my first mission here, and I
begged them not to harm me, that I'd serve them if they let me live. They saw my usefulness as a translator and kept me alive, even as they killed
everyone else in my squad – even though they
hate me." He jerked his head towards me, clenching his fists, his eyes smoldering in the firelight.
I scooted back in fear and got to my feet, frightened at this sudden, unexpected change in him. "John, calm down," I whispered.
But he didn't listen. "The scythods
despise us, Vanya," he shouted emphatically. "They
loathe dwarves and humans, and they have
every right to! Ballpoint did the same thing to them that they did to me, but the scythods
stood up for themselves! They
didn't run, or cower in fear! They
didn't avoid death - they
embraced it! The only reason they ever worked for Ballpoint at all is because they couldn't stand the thought of dying by firing squad.
And that's exactly what I let happen to Chiktylk."
"John, sit down,
please!" I begged. "Stop being so –” Suddenly, I halted, staring in astonishment at a tall, shadowy form that stalked into the firelight behind my friend. John looked at me curiously, and then down at his shoulder as a huge armscythe came to rest upon it. I could dimly make out a long, dark scar, and I knew at once who it was.
Warmaster Scylk stepped out into the firelight, hissing. "You are loud, Lonne," he said slowly, clicking his claws. "Your words carry far, and all the camp has heard you." Scylk could understand dwarven, as could many others of my captors.
John seemed to shrink, his brief rage dissipating. He glanced away awkwardly, replying in a quiet tone, "I'm sorry, your warship. I was retelling the past, and it upset me."
Scylk clicked his claws again in disapproval. "Do not hate those who die cruel deaths. The past is dead, and it dies the cruelest death of all." He paused for a moment to let it sink in, and then continued, "Now, come. It is cold, and we must move when the sun sends its warm rays upon us. Get some sleep, young ones." Turning, he stomped away, his legspikes thudding into the damp earth.
"He's right, John," I said softly, after the warmaster had left.
With a frown, John sat, idly tossing a few pebbles into the fire. "I know," he said finally with a sigh. "Let's just go to bed."
I nodded in response. "Goodnight, John."
"Goodnight, Vanya."
Lying down on the cold ground, I closed my eyes, thinking thoughts of home until I fell asleep.
My dreams were troubled that night...
~~~
He'd found me.
I stood before him amidst darkened, swirling mists, glaring at him heatedly with long-repressed rage. "That was my
sister, Urist!" I felt my fists clench themselves, my nails digging into my palms. The stern, yet apologetic look on his face made me burn inside, and I found his chiseled lantern jaw as attractive as a dead moth. "Didn't she
look like me to you? Didn't you see the resemblance?!"
"Vanya, I -"
"
Don't say my name!" I shouted. My heart twisted as he said it, an agonizing reminder of how much I'd used to love hearing my name escape his lips. My heart was torn between loving and loathing... and that only made me hate him even more.
"Please," he said, stepping forwards and reaching for my hand. I swatted it away and stepped back, wishing I could burn through him with my eyes. He looked up at my face; I watched his pained expression coldly with a hardened heart. "Please, think back to the good times we had together," he begged. "You loved me as I love you. You misunderstand what happened.
Look at me. Why would I betray you?"
They floated in front of my eyes again: Hans' room, the little peck I'd given him; the caverns, him throwing me forwards as we escaped the collapsing ceiling, looking up at his eyes in the glowing light of his spearhead; the gorlak pond, the gems sparkling in the moonlight... but I brushed them away indignantly. "Answer my question," I told him.
"I was under attack at the time. She was going to kill you. That's all I saw."
I slowly shook my head, staring through narrowed eyes. "And she wasn't shooting me. Did you notice? Did you even
look??"
"I did not have enough time."
"Oh, you killed her because you 'didn't have time'??"
"I
shot her because of that reason. If I had not killed her, you would have stayed by her side. You are too sensitive for battle."
"There's no such thing!" I yelled, shaking with fury. "If
anything, you're too
insensitive! She didn't have to die!
Halion didn't have to die! You've
murdered thousands, Urist! You're a
killer! That's all you are! That's all you do! That's all you're capable of!"
His calm was slowly disappearing, just as I'd known it would. "I only meant well!"
"Well, of course you did!"
"It was for the best!"
"That's a lie!!"
"It saved your life!!"
"I would rather have
died!"
It struck him as a blow, and he stepped back a pace, shaking his head in disbelief. "You don't mean that," he said quietly.
I thought I saw the glimmer of a tear in his eye, and I drank it in as nectar, my eyebrows furrowing with contempt. "You could never understand, Urist. You'll
never understand. You don't care; you don't care at all. You only wanted me for yourself; you never cared about how I felt. When did you ever tell me I was beautiful? When did we ever sit and talk, even just for a few minutes?" I grew quieter as I fought back tears. "When did you ever tell me how special I was to you?" I brushed my eyes roughly, hating that he still meant enough to make me cry.
"We never had the time, Spala. I'm sorry."
I looked up at Urist suddenly, confused. "What?"
"Spala, I..." He looked down at his hands with a curious, alarmed expression as they began to disappear, dissolving at the fingertips, spreading upwards past his wrists.
I stepped back from the dissipating apparition in terror. "Urist, what's
happening to you/?"
He looked at me one last time, longingly, regretfully - a painful image that would linger in my mind for days to follow.
And he was gone.
"Spala..."
"Spala."
I found myself in a blackened, breathless void, groping desperately for a handhold and finding nothing but a solid spike of bone.
It lifted itself; I felt the sharpened tip, heard it slice into the damp earth a few feet away.
"Spala."
The dream lifted, though the night remained. "Warmaster?" I ventured quietly, my voice hardly a whisper.
"You were talking while asleep, young one."
His words brought to mind the entire dream. My heart felt heavy in my chest. "It was just a bad dream," I muttered.
"Does something trouble you?" He spoke so softly I could hardly hear him, but I felt a gentle claw rest itself on my shoulder.
"No..." I said, then paused. "No... I'll just go back to sleep. I'm sorry for waking you."
The claw patted my shoulder reassuringly. "You did not awaken me. Would you like me to relight the fire?"
"Yes, and thank you," I replied softly.
It was but minutes before the little campfire was burning again, and I stared into it, my eyes burning with tears. My heart ached like nothing I'd ever known.
I liked the nightmares about the forges better.
☆
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Topic: [34.11] Spearbreakers - It shudders and begins to move (Read 2273473 times)