“No!” he shouted, writhing in the hands of the enemy. They laughed as he kicked and bucked, all in a futile attempt to shake off their grips of iron and unhook their cold, merciless claws.
“Let me go, filth!”
“You’ll never survive my wrath!”
“I’ll kick your asses when I get out of here, just you wait.”
The enemy was unfazed by his threats and insults, and soon the prisoner fell silent. The troop of enemy soldiers and their lone prisoner trekked all the while through a landscape of strange, round stone spires rising from the ground like massive trees and disappearing into the clouds above.
Finally the soldiers spoke, a few words at a time, stopping to let the next in line continue their sentence; there were twelve altogether.
“Worthless scum,” began one.
“Your capture,” continued another.
“Is quite pathetic,” giggled the third.
“Nevertheless,” muttered the fourth, a strong and silent fellow.
“You have been chosen!” announced the fifth.
“From among the others,” added the sixth.
“To live!” The seventh clapped its hands gleefully and did a little dance.
A glare from the eighth silenced the seventh. “You will be tortured,” he growled, returning his attention to the prisoner.
“In ac-c-c-cordance with,” stammered the ninth.
“The Master’s will,” the tenth finished.
Needless to say, the eleventh and twelfth were left to come up with their own words.
“Jerk.”
“Loser.”
At the time when the soldiers had started speaking, they had stopped in front of one of the monolith stone spires. When they had finished speaking the fourth unhooked a jangling ring of keys from his belt and, choosing a specific key, inserted it into the padlock that hung from the wooden door set into the side of the spire. The others shoved their prisoner, who had begun his protests anew, through the open door. With the menacing chuckle of a villain who loves his job the fourth re-locked the door and hooked the ring of keys to his belt once more. With a collection of nods the enemy soldiers marched back in the direction from which they had just come.
The prisoner inside realized that the stone spire wasn’t a spire at all, but a tower. Confronted with an enormous staircase, he did the only thing he could do and began climbing. He climbed for what felt like hours, never feeling even a shred of fatigue. Finally, though, he reached the top.
At once all of the things he should have been feeling—shortness of breath, burning thighs, dizzy head—hit him with the crushing force of a million stampeding horses. The prisoner staggered and fell to his knees, ungracefully flopping onto his side from there. “Ow,” he breathed, aware only of the senseless spinning routine the room seemed to be performing.
Eventually the room’s acrobatics calmed and the prisoner was able to drag himself to lay on the bed on the opposite side of the room. He puzzled over the lavish decorations of the circular chamber, thinking them generous for a prisoner of war, but he was unable to complain. Rather than do any more puzzling, he sank into a deep sleep.
The prisoner awoke to a rather unpleasant poking at his ribs with what felt like a human finger. “Knock it off,” he mumbled, surprised when a weird little man swung into view.
“What for?” the man asked innocently, mischievous glinting eyes revealing his true genius.
“It’s bothering me,” growled the prisoner.
“This?” The man poked the prostrate figure again. “This bothers you?” Again he poked him.
“Yes,” replied he through gritted teeth.
“Good.” The small man hopped over the prisoner’s bed with simian grace and began poking him on his other side.
The prisoner bolted upright and swatted the man’s hand away. “Quit it!”
Childlike in manner, the man stuck his tongue out at his victim of irritating torment and said, “No.” He got in a few more jabs before the prisoner knocked him off his precarious perch on the edge of the bed with a solid right hook.
“You’re going to regret doing that,” the man muttered maliciously, falling into a dark mood as he picked himself off the ground and rubbed his jaw. Then, ape-like in stature, he walked to the corner of the room and swung up onto a bed bolted five feet up on the wall.
The prisoner watched the simian man carefully for a good long while; the latter had all but lost interest with the former. Standing and raking a hand through his hair, the prisoner resolved to look around the large circular room, which was complete with a little balcony. On a nearby table he found a meal of fruits and cheeses and, upon inquiring about it to the simian man and getting no response, began eating.
The long hours he spent in thought and contemplation, wondering how and when he had pulled this shortest of sticks. The setting of the sun offered a spectacular aerial show performed by the great multitude of birds, in nearly every variation imaginable, which swarmed the skies and surfaces of other towers during the day. When the heavens were finally dark and the last bird had disappeared from view, the prisoner finally consented to going to bed.
What couldn’t have been more than two hours later, the prisoner was wakened by more vicious jabbing at his side. Refusing to open his eyes, he lashed out with a fist, hitting only air as the simian man dodged the blow.
“Go away,” growled the former.
“Never,” sneered the latter.
Feeling threatened by this strange little man, the prisoner sat up in his bed and peered through the darkness for a glimpse of his tormentor. A yellow glint off his eyes showed the man to be somewhere at the foot of the four-poster bed, simply watching now. Hoping his glare could be seen, the prisoner settled down for a long night of waiting.
Dawn found the prisoner half asleep, but the man’s act of stepping closer soon jolted the former into forced wakefulness once more. This went on for another day, with the prisoner dozing fitfully in fear of this annoying creature. It was on the second night that he resigned to falling asleep. So far the simian man had only poked him with his finger, an action that the prisoner had learned to ignore.
He spent his days on the balcony, watching the birds in their aerial show, eating the fruits and cheeses that replenished themselves each morning as if by magic, and attempting conversation with the simian man.
The curious little creature cycled through a handful of moods, ranging from sullen and silent to hyper and garrulous. The prisoner found himself mirroring his companion’s moods, for when the man was angry he poked with shark things like sticks and needles; when he was happy he effected playful pokes and harmless little slaps.
From the little man the prisoner learned much, for it proved that he was a wise old man. He would not explain who “the Master” that the soldiers had spoken of was, but he alluded to a power beneath the earth—one with the boldness to reach beyond its own dimension and puppet the people of the world above. The prisoner shivered when he said this, shying away from the eerie smile of the man and seeking to cleanse himself of the dark foreboding that had gripped him tight. The suddenly anxious prisoner retreated to the balcony, finding solace in the cool wind at his face, the warm sun at his back, and the graceful birds soaring through the air.
That night an owl came and landed on the railing bordering the balcony. Never before had a bird landed on this particular tower, and its hoots woke the prisoner when the simian man’s poking stick would not. Angered by this, the creature chased the bird away, hooting loudly and waving his arms.
Disappointment creased the prisoner’s brow; he had wanted to at least watch the owl, to wonder why it had landed where the others of its kind could not. Alas, the prisoner only rolled over and closed his eyes again, waiting for sleep to overtake him while the simian man muttered curses after the bird.
This went on for days, this routine the prisoner and his companion had fallen into; the owl began visiting with increasingly regularity. As the bird frequented the prisoner’s tower, the simian man fell into a mood more and more foul. He found sharper things to torment his victim with, going as far as to pull a short sword down from the wall ornamentation. The prisoner endured this odd torture, sustaining cuts and bruises that he bound himself with strips of the extra bed sheet. All this he endured for his time with the owl.
He couldn’t explain it, but the prisoner felt a closer connection with the bird than the man. The quiet night hours spent in the company of the avian creature he much preferred to his daytime conversations with the simian one. For the simian man had grown angry and volatile, preferring to hurl small objects at the prisoner than actually answer his questions. The owl, on the other hand, cooed and hooted quietly in response to his words.
The prisoner took to telling “his” owl as he liked to think of it, the tales from his life as a soldier. “I’m fighting a terrible enemy,” he told her one night, and the bird tilted its head in attention. “The armies of Pain and Despair are a formidable opponent, and their leader is a mysterious figure known as the Master. They say he lives far beneath the earth, but I’m not so sure.
“I don’t believe this ‘Master’ nonsense,” the prisoner continued, tone akin to one sharing a great secret. “I’m sure it’s just a hoax to scare people off. Their soldiers sure are zealous about it, though. If you ask me, they’re all pretty—“
At this point the prisoner paused in his narrative, hearing the soft footfalls of the simian man creeping up behind him. Turning slowly toward the man, he raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“The Master is no hoax,” the man admonished, his quiet manner and glinting yellow eyes possessing of a dangerous air.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those zealots!” cried the prisoner, slapping a palm to his forehead. Another look at the man—who was staring, unamused, at the prisoner—confirmed his suspicion and dragged a groan from his mouth. “Oh, you are. That’s just great. I should’ve known.”
The look the man gave him was murderous. The prisoner, remembering then that this was the face of the man who had been stabbing at him with a sword for the past few nights, felt a feeling of foreboding grip him tight.
“I-it’s fine, by the way,” he stammered. “You can believe whatever you want to, it’s cool.”
The simian man said nothing, choosing instead to retreat back into the tower with slow, deliberate steps.
As the owl gave a hoot the prisoner swore. “I’ve screwed up this time, girl,” he told the owl. Putting on a smile for the bird—so it wouldn’t worry about him, of course—he said, “If that guy tries to hurt me again—and I’m sure he will—you had better come rescue me, okay?
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he admitted, glancing at his bandaged shoulder where the angry man had stuck him with a sword last night.
The owl blinked and gave a hoot in what sounded to her companion like a confirmation.
“Thanks.” Pushing himself away from the balcony’s railing, the prisoner glanced up at the sky and yawned loudly. “Well, that’s my cue. Good night.”
Remaining stationary, the owl watched him return to the tower room and climb into bed. She sounded her calm cry again and flew off as soon as he dropped off to sleep, but after having given his tormentor a long stare. Despite her departure, the owl didn’t go far.
In fact, she returned to the tower in the wee hours of the morning, alighting on the balcony to find that the tower’s doors, which always remained open, were shut to her. The owl alighted on the balcony, then began to grow and change. And then, the owl was not an owl but a girl, possessing of short, wispy brown hair and bright yellow eyes. She tried to the door and found it locked. Then, drawing a slim bone from her pocket, she proceeded to swiftly pick the lock.
A cry of surprise greeted her as she hauled the door open—it was the man. He was poised over the prisoner, sword held high above his head, ready to strike. Moonlight glinted off the man’s eyes and the blade in turn, and he grinned a horrible, joyless grin that never reached his cold, yellow eyes.
As the man brought the sword down on the prisoner’s head, the girl leapt at him and knocked him sideways. The sword clattered loudly across the flagstoned floor, waking the prisoner with a jolt. He bolted upright to see a small girl grappling with his simian companion, who was straining for the sword. Wordlessly the boy sat there, unsure of who to root for.
Watching the strange match, he saw the girl slug her opponent with a fierce right hook, who then lay still. She stood and brushed off her hands, glanced evenly at the prisoner sitting in the bed, and set about to binging the unconscious man with strips taken from the torn sheet at the foot of the bed.
Finally the prisoner ventured to speak. “So, um, how did you get in here?”
Silently the girl returned to the balcony door—where she had dropped her lock pick prior to the first fight, and slipped it into her pocket by way of answer. “We should get out of here before he wakes up again,” she said instead. “His Master is no joke.”
This jolted the prisoner into action. A scoffing action, but an action all the same. “Really?” he retorted, swinging his legs out of the bed. He stood up, glanced at the sword lying on the ground, and rubbed his neck sub-consciously. “I would think that something like that would be a simple scare tactic.”
The girl shook her head solemnly. “Not at all. Their Master is certainly a force to be reckoned with. He monitors all prisoners of war, so we should get out of here before he notices the ineptitude of his guard.”
As if on cue, the tower began to rumble and tossed the two roughly to the floor. A booming laugh rattled the teeth in their skulls, and a figure like a black hole appeared between them and the balcony door. The girl cursed, diving sideways and snatching up the simian man’s fallen sword.
Disregarding the sword levelled at his chest, the man of antimatter stepped menacingly toward his prisoner, who had darted after the girl once he noticed her absence. “I am the Master,” he seemed to shout. “Fear me, mortals.”
“As if,” the girl muttered, sarcasm flaring in the face of this powerful being. She lifted her sword point and crisscrossed the air in front of her, daring the Master to come any closer.
Seeming to see the girl for the first time, the black figure paused and tilted his head. “So...you’re one of them,” he hissed, distaste evident in his tone.
“Yeah, I am.” She glared up at the figure. “You got a problem with that?”
The Master merely chuckled. “I laugh at your arrogance, little one. You think to defy me; it is refreshing.” With a swift movement he drew his own sword out of thin air. It was a dull obsidian color and its razor-sharp edge glinted maliciously. “It has been long since I have stooped to fight a mere mortal.”
Pushing the prisoner against the wall—not unkindly—to clear him of the room’s center, the girl settled into a defensive stance. Swinging her sword in an arc in front of her, she crooked a finger at the shadowy finger. “Bring it on, Lame-Brain.”
With a shake of the head the Master stepped forward, slowly at first, and then struck with an astonishing speed. The girl was only just able to block the blow, straining under the weight of his sword. At the last second she was able to roll sideways, springing to her feet and darting past his guard to slice at his knee.
The Master grunted in pain, spinning his sword back and catching the girl’s hair as she dropped to the floor. Striking at his feet from her low vantage point, the girl danced out of range of the Master’s sword and retreated to the balcony. There she raised her sword, breathing hard, only to drop the blade and clutch her left forearm.
When she had passed under the Master’s broadsword, the girl, numbed by adrenaline, failed to feel him cut back across her mid-swing. A deep gash exposed the bone and blood gushed from the wound, staining the girl’s arm red.
A deep-throated chuckle from the Master’s mouth echoed throughout the room. “Pesky mortal,” he chortled. “You thought you could defeat me? Look at how pitiful you are now.” With his sword raised high, he stood over his fallen victim and brought the blade down.
The prisoner, abandoning his fear, moved with almost superhuman speed, snatched up the girl’s fallen sword, and parried the Master’s blow. Being a soldier, he excelled in the art of swordplay and was able to beat the Master back, even dealing him a fierce wound.
There they stood, the prisoner (standing in a defensive position in front of the wounded girl, who had attempted to bind her wound with a strip of material from her tunic) and the Master (who had taken a solid sword point to the thigh). Both were breathing hard, as if they had just run a marathon.
“Shall I accept your surrender now?” the Master panted, attempting to sound menacing.
“Never,” breathed the prisoner, trying to conceal his fatigue. Behind him the girl stirred, slowly getting to her feet. She whispered something in his ear, almost imperceptibly, but loud enough that he could hear her.
Before the Master had any time to think, the prisoner hurled his sword at his shadowy antagonist like a javelin, and the girl leapt forward from behind him to slam the balcony doors shut. Then they, without hesitation, turned and tossed themselves over the balcony railing.
Before the prisoner had joined the army, such an act of daring would have been beyond him, but he had accustomed himself to terrifying circumstances through experience. That did not, however, prevent him from nearly fainting from the sensation of free falling.
“Spread your wings!” she girl shouted over the screaming of the wind.
“What?” the prisoner hollered back.
“Your arms!” To demonstrate, she spread her arms and shrank into a small, burly owl. The wind’s tearing fingers groped her wound and her wings snapped shut; she dropped like a human stone. Pain contorted her face and she clutched her injury.
“You do it,” she grunted. “Save yourself.”
The prisoner, now free, took her advice immediately and spread his arms. Immediately feathers sprouted everywhere and caught the air. He was safe in the form of a large American Condor, but he couldn’t let his saving grace plummet to her death.
Closing his wings, he drove down and spread his arms again, cushioning her body under his feathered back. “Change!” he screamed as the ground hurtled towards them. The girl didn’t question it, instantly shrinking into her owl form.
As his burden lessened the prisoner-no-more glided through the air, the girl in her owl form huddled close to his feathery back. “Over there,” said the owl, indicating that the former prisoner should carry her to the base of a large tree on the ground. When he did so she reverted back to her human form, allowing him to arrange her in a sitting position against the tree’s trunk.
Within minutes a large flock of birds had landed in the branches of the oak, filling the air with calls of all sorts. One, a small-but-fierce eagle, glided down to the ground and morphed into the form of a girl with an age near that of the prisoner-no-more. Her eyes shone with gratitude as they met his, and without any hesitation she stepped forward and wrapped him in a warm hug. Then she turned her attention to the wounded owl. After a thorough examination of her patient, the girl straightened up and addressed the entire flock; what she said brought forth hoots and cries of joy:
“She’ll live.”
ns 15.158.61.7da2
