Immortal Darkness: Shadow Across the Land (11 page)

“How is that going to help us?”

Taking a nervous glance at his son, Carpla
changed the subject when he told him, “Anyway—now that you’re full
of energy, you should get yourself prepared to see the slaves.”

Another moment of hesitation came between the
father and son before Molar replied in a cheerful voice, “Okay!” It
was almost as if he had forgotten about the fowl-tasting liquid he
had just drunk.
I can’t wait!
he exclaimed.

After a quick pause of silence, Molar took a
rush over to the castle’s front doors as he swiftly made his way
outside. Upon meeting up with the outside world, he came to find
himself in the midst of his father’s garden once again. Nearly
bumping his way into one of his father’s precious plants, he
quickly stopped himself from causing any damage.

Pulling his beak away from the plants’
leaves, Molar turned his head over his shoulder upon hearing the
sound of Carpla’s shoes clacking against the ground. As excitement
swelled his head, Molar nervously asked his father, “Are we going
to see the slaves now?” despite everything Carpla had told him
earlier.

With a nod, Carpla replied through a minute
voice, “We’re going to see the slaves, their owners, and learn how
they live.” He took notice of his son nearly giving a hop of
excitement as they both exited the castle’s walls.

Molar’s large paws shuffled uneasily as he
walked beside his father. He found it unfair how he had been born
with wings, but not his father. An idea formed in his head—the idea
of carrying Carpla by his robes as he took hold of them while they
flew—but he was too embarrassed to ask such a question. If only he
had known about Carpla’s ability to hover—

A look of listlessness showing all over his
body, Molar still continued to follow his father with stiffened
legs. His gaze took notice of only his dusty paws as they left
peculiar-shaped prints in the sand. His beak pointed its way toward
the ground, almost dragging across the sand as the two came within
barely any distance between each other.

Molar’s head shot up when he heard an angry,
masculine growl split the air. His neck gave a great jerk upwards
as he and his father froze in place. Only one thought spread into
each of their minds:
What was that?

Turning his gaze toward his father, Molar
witnessed Carpla’s shoulders give a stressful tense. Exchanging
glances, he assured his son, “It’s probably a slave owner.”

A pause of silence filled their heads until
Molar gave a quick nod of assurance. He took sight of Carpla
heading off into the east, but made no attempt to move his paws. As
if he hadn’t even existed, Carpla left Molar standing where he was
to be alone with his thoughts.

Through the short time he had stood in that
one place, a swarm of questions buzzed through his mind.
Why was
the slave owner screaming?
Was he overreacting to his
slaves’ mistake? And even then, was the mistake even that big of a
deal?

Switching his gaze from the ground to his
father, Molar called out to him, “Hey—wait for me!” A rush sprang
beneath his four paws as he caught up to Carpla.

Upon taking sensation of his father’s robe
brushing against his ribs, Molar slowed his pace and gave himself
time to listen to the sound of slave owners’ voices. Mixed in with
their voices were the sounds of groaning and a small amount of
screaming. To add to sounds, Molar could take sight of a small,
wooden sign with the picture of a slightly large, white bird
painted on its surface.

This must be it,
he told himself
silently. Although excitement still surged through him, it was
beginning to dim as nervousness started replacing it. He pressed
himself up against his father, hoping Carpla could protect him from
the violence surrounding them.

Molar and Carpla noticed the slaves digging
up the important Mocranian construction materials. They used
nothing but pickaxes to mine the metals out—the likes of which were
mainly limestone and granite.

As his sight locked onto a frail, anonymous
human slave, Molar heard himself being lectured by his father.
“This place that we’re in is called a yavia,” Carpla explained
through a murmur. “When your grandfather first discovered there
were holes in our ground, his first idea was to fill them up with
dirt. But later he came up with a better idea.”

Lifting his dusty hand, Carpla pointed in the
same direction in which Molar was looking. “That rock that the
slave over there is mining was formed by one of the holes.”
Confused, Molar removed his gaze from the slave to take a look up
at his father.

Understanding his confusion, Carpla
explained, “The main reason why your grandfather wanted to get rid
of these holes was because they were squirting out a very hot,
orange substance called lava. But later he discovered that when the
lava cooled, the air surrounding it caused them to turn into either
granite or limestone rock.”

Turning his gaze away from Molar’s side, he
continued. “At first, he thought that this rock would just keep
piling up until there was barely any space left here. It was only a
few days after discovering them that he found out that these rocks
could be mined to build homes and towers. That’s why yaviai are
usually filled with slaves. You’re going to fi—”

Before Carpla could speak another word,
however, he was interrupted by the sound of his son’s screams.
Taking a quick look over his shoulder, he took notice of a
bludgeoned and bloodied female human slave seeping her fingers
around the edges of Molar’s eye sockets.

The slave took a look into Carpla’s hood and
gave a great hiss, revealing two rows of blood-stained teeth. One
of her arms wrapped its way around Molar’s neck, giving him very
little space to move.

Molar made an attempt to snip his beak
through the slave’s skin—but the way she was holding him prevented
him from doing so. Pulling back from Carpla, the slave screeched,
“Let me go and I’ll let your—” Miraculously for Molar, the slave
gave a surprised gasp as her grip on his neck began to loosen.

Feeling a pressure press up against the back
of his head, Molar quickly trotted away from the slave. Turning
himself around, he witnessed how the fire—once burning in her
eyes—had extinguished into ash. The slave came down on her knees, a
moisture forming just below her left eye while she summoned a much
redder liquid from her mouth.

A pang of remorse pierced through Molar’s
skull as he took sight of the human slave’s chest crash onto the
gray sand below her. As she lay on the ground, Molar discovered a
javelin had been launched into her spine.

Molar watched as the human’s blood held a
striking resemblance to the liquid he had drunk the day before. It
trickled from her spine, streaming down through her arm until it
came to a near stop at one of her hands. Once at the tip of her
finger, the red liquid began to drip onto the sand below her.

Slowly crawling up to the deceased slave,
Molar took a close look at the blood when a heavily armed soldier
ripped his javelin from the slave’s skin and commanded to him,
“Carry on.” Molar was almost surprised to see the javelin’s tip
covered in the blood as it drew its way from the deceased slave’s
body.

Shuddering in disgust, Molar followed his
father as they both walked away from the remains of what was once a
slave. He pressed up even closer by Carpla’s side than before, the
fear of another slave attack even greater than before.

He was very surprised that none of the other
slaves took so much as a single glance at their dead friend.
Do
they even care?
Curious, Molar shook the fear from his head
when he asked Carpla, “Why did that slave attack me?”

Hesitating, Carpla’s pace came to a pause—as
did Molar’s. He slowly drew his gaze down to the skeletal figure he
knew as his son. His head bending down almost all the way into a
ninety degree angle, he replied, “That’s what slaves do. For as
long as I can remember, almost all of them have attacked Mocranians
for countless reasons.”

“Like what?” asked Molar, moving in front of
Carpla.

“Well,” Carpla began, “they have often
claimed to hate our society many times before. Because they hated
our society, we had them work for us.”

“How long have there been slaves?” wondered
Molar, bringing a slight change to the subject.

“They were around before even I was born.
I’ve heard a bunch of stories about when they would try to rebel
over us, but we would always win in the end.”

Asking no more questions, Molar took a look
down at his paws as he began to walk beside his father once again.
He was lost in his own thoughts, ignoring the harsh sounds sounding
outside his skull’s barriers.

So they should be enslaved because they
were rebels,
Molar told himself silently. He pondered on this
thought for a long time, soon wondering whether or not it was
really all of the slaves that had joined in the rebellion—or if it
was just a select few. If so was the case, than only those who had
rebelled should have at least been put in a prison—rather than the
whole slave race.

“Father,” Molar began after a long pause of
silence. “Did
all
of the slaves rebel against us?”

“Yes.”

“Every single one of them?”

Once again stopping in his tracks, Carpla
snapped, “Yes!
Every
single one of them!” Noticing his son
taking a tiny step backward, he gave a quick crouch on his knees as
he clutched Molar by one of his ribs.

Molar almost shook when he felt his father’s
dusty hand clutch onto his rib. Stammering, he wished to cower away
from his problems when he explained, “It just doesn’t seem fair
that all of them should have been enslaved when only some of them
rebelled.”

“I just told you that
all
of them
rebelled against us!”

“But don’t you think that we—exaggerated?”
Half-expecting Carpla to snap once again, Molar waited for his
father to make a response. When no words passed from behind his
hood, Molar continued, “Well—maybe some of them don’t deserve
it.”

“Don’t you ever say they don’t deserve it!”
Carpla shrieked. Squeezing Molar’s rib, Carpla pulled him off of
the ground. In response to having none of his body touching the
ground without his intention, Molar commanded through a series of
panics, “Stop! Let me down!”

His fingers still clutching around Molar’s
rib, Carpla raised his own son over his head just before releasing
his grasp. For a second, Molar could feel himself floating through
the air as his screams sounded throughout the yavia.

It was only an instant of time he spent
enjoying the cool breeze brought upon him when he felt a sharp
limestone run into his spine. Filling his head all the while was
the sound of his cloak’s fabric tearing apart.

Once he felt this rock scratching through his
bone, the only sound Molar could take hearing of now were his own
cries of agony. He was too giddy to take notice of the nearby
slaves chronically mining the limestone rocks without speaking a
single word.

With very little strength flowing through his
bones, Molar brought his cries to a stop and slowly picked himself
up on his paws. He took a quick, angry look up at his father—who
continued to hold a laconic gesture toward him. A growl escaped
from his beak when he muttered, “Just what is wrong with you?”

Frightened yet infuriated, Molar stood his
ground as his father’s shadow enveloped him in darkness. Just when
he had expected Carpla to throw him against another rock, Molar
heard his father beckon, “Come on—we’re leaving.”

Already?
Even with this thought in
mind, he released a small sigh of relief and Molar followed his
father, his beak almost coming in contact with Carpla’s heels as
they both exited the yavia. Walking without letting any cries of
agony escape from his beak quickly became a struggle. Over and over
again did he have to remind himself,
Don’t scream—don’t
scream.

Through the trip back home, Molar begged
himself not to turn his gaze toward the busy slaves. A great fear
within him warned him doing so might cause the slaves to hurt him
again. The last thing he wanted was to have his already-injured
spine split into two pieces.

He continued to walk, unable to do anything
else except for staring down at his own lion-like paws. Every
passing heartbeat caused Molar’s pace to slow down without his
intention. As a result, he was forced to give his pace a quick
boost every once in a while.

The one and only thing Molar wanted to do at
this point was at least receive the chance to talk to his father.
It seemed the only way to make him understand that he was sorry.
But he would never listen to me after that. And besides—would he
even forgive me?

Apologizing was something Molar did not like
doing. It seemed—in his mind—the affect from apologizing would be
the exact opposite of what most people would expect. Ironically—in
the case where he had made a large mistake—the person Molar had
apologized to would often snap at him, making him feel even more
ashamed of himself. What was the point of apologizing if it had
hardly ever worked in situations like this?

Once their castle was in sight, Carpla
quickened his pace without warning. Taking his mind off the thought
of apologies, Molar yelled silently,
Wait for me!

Molar began to flap his wings in an attempt
at flight, feeling a breeze released from his wings. Just when the
breeze began to flutter through his torn cloak, Molar sensed a jolt
of pain spring through his spine. Upon taking sensation of such a
painful notion, he hastily dropped back down to the ground.

Stifling a scream, Molar told himself
silently,
Well, I guess I’ll just have to walk there.
Sighing, he folded his wings just before starting himself on a
dawdling pace. At least then he could move with less pain surging
through him.