Kingdom Quest: 2

Chapter 3

The dawn didn't rise so much as it curdled over the jungle, a sickly grey light filtering through the canopy's strangling vines. Night sounds faded, but morning sounds didn’t quite comfort either.

A strange reeking oder floated through the thick humid air and wrapped itself around Fable where she lay on her cot, her body a map of throbbing aches. To her left, the jungle breathed; a heavy, rhythmic heaving of damp earth and rotting vegetation that pressed against the camp’s perimeter. She could hear the birds calling a mournful tone. She felt the grime on her skin like a second suit of clothes—oily, sour, and heavy with the scent of stagnant water.

She felt disgusted.

The Sergeant’s voice was a jagged blade, cutting through the low groans of the men. "Up! Time to move! Let’s go, you Dang Slugs!"

Fable forced herself to stand, her knees clicking with a protest that made her wince. She followed the line of silent, shadowed men toward the mess tent, her feet dragging through the slick, black mud of the camp. Outside the stinkhole of Bunker Four, the air was heavy and fresh.

Breakfast was served from a blackened iron pot. The cook slapped some food in her wooden bowl. She stared at the  dark, gelatinous sludge that shimmered with an unearthly, oily light under the flicker of the wall-mounted torches. It smelled of iron and old moss. She couldn’t imagine what it was. 

Taking her bowl she sat down at a table with her other bunk mates. She picked up her wooden spoon and held it over the bowl, prepared to eat the unrecognizable meal. She stopped midair as a strange smell wafted up through her nose, burning her eyes. Rotten fruit? 

"Don't think about it," a man across from her said. He was older, his face a ruin of scars, his mouth missing half its teeth. His glassy eyes glued onto Fable’s  as he shoveled the slime into his mouth with a rhythmic, desperate speed. "Thinking is for the dead. Just shove it in. Your belly won't know the difference once the running starts. Trust me, you’ll thank the gods later." 

“What is it, though?” Fable asked, leaning forward to talk to him. "is it fruit?"

“We don’t know,” another man answered gravely. “It could be anything. The cooks, they just throw whatever they can into the pot and boil it up. Good thing it’s tasteless. The gods save our souls!”

Fable watched as the men went back to eating their food. They murmured to each other, but no one said anything else about the food.

Fable squeezed her eyes shut, picturing Aunt Adela’s hearth—the smell of dried lavender and the warmth of a real fire. The memory felt like a physical sting. Aunt Adela felt like a distant dream. 

She forced a spoonful of the dark slime past her lips. It was cold and thick, sliding down her throat like a slug. She gagged, her fingers white-knuckled around the edge of the rough-hewn table, and forced herself to swallow. She had to. If she didn't eat, she wouldn't have the strength to find her father. And if she didn't find him, she would never go home.

She had to eat.

 When they  emerged from the tent, the humidity of the jungle hit her like a physical blow. The trees were massive, gnarled giants draped in strangling vines that looked like frozen snakes. Somewhere deep in the green shadows, a bird shrieked—a sharp, piercing sound that set her nerves on edge.

She jumped and swung to look wildly around at her companions. Some of the men, seeing her fear, laughed  at her. Fable’s cheeks burned and she hung her head. 

Then she froze.

Across the muddy clearing, near a line of tethered horses, stood a general. He was a pillar of shadow in his dark, plum-colored cloak. His armor was stained with the rust of old blood, glinting dully in the weak morning light. He wasn't looking at the horses or his officers. He was staring directly at Fable. And Fable noticed something else---a flash of bright red candy between his parted lips---that send her blood running cold for some eerie reson she didn't know.

He leaned toward a subordinate, his lips moving in a sharp whisper, his hand subtly pointing with a single, twisted  finger. The other man looked up, his gaze locking onto Fable’s face with a cold, hard interest.

Fable felt the blood drain from her face. It was the same feeling she had in those recurring nightmares—the sense of being hunted by something that already knew everuthing about her. She tore her eyes away, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Those men looked strangely familiar, like they were from a far away dream she longed to remember. But she couldn't trust herself. she had come to notice that out here, in the rainforest of Lamar, her childhood  memories were slipping through her fingers like wisps of smoke. If only she could—

"Eyes down, girl," a voice said.

She turned to see a boy, checking the strap of a heavy leather sheath at his hip, his yellow hair damp with the morning mist. His blue eyes weren't kind; they were burning with a volatile, impatient heat.

"Don't you know better than to stare?" he snapped harshly. "what? you planning on getting yourself killed?"

Fable took a step back, putting distance between them. "what are you talking about?" she was sure she had never seen this boy before. If she had, she would have remembered. He had striking yellow hair and vibrant blue eyes, slightly slanted. His shoulders were broad, but he was also lean and stood about six feet six inches.

The stranger's face soften when he noticed how surprised Fable was at his outburst.

"I'm Hawkeye," he said, his voice so deep and firm  it made her jump. “ I’ve seen you around and heard the men talk about you. Your name is Fable Lee Kami, right?” 

Fable blinked. “How did you know that?”

“I told you, the whole camp is in an uproar over the madness of having you here. We know it doesn’t end well when a lone girl like you ends up here.” He glanced back at the generals and narrowed his eyes. “And I know that if  you stare at the generals, you're just asking for a shallow grave."

"I... I thought I knew them," Fable whispered, her voice trembling. “They look so familiar to me. Like I’ve met them before…”

“Really? Why?” Hawkeye asked. His eyes were genuinely curious, but his voice came off wrong. Dark and suspicious, and commanding. She watched him, wondering what he really wanted. Was he just here to make fun of her like the rest of them? Didn’t he have something better to do then pick on the camp clown?

Fable lifted her thin shoulders in answer to his question, shaking her head. “I don’t know for sure. That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.” She glanced back at the men, then quickly looked away. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you.” she said to the tall boy. “Are you in division Zest2?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. His thick hair fell in his eyes and he flicked  it away. “I just got chosen. Why do you ask?”

“I am in the same division.” she said, grinning slightly.

Hawkeye’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead. “Oh, so we are on the same team.” 

Was that disappointment behind his eyes?

“Yes.” For a moment, standing there dirty and hungry and exhausted, with lice gnawing at her scalp, Fable couldn’t help feeling safe and relaxed in Hawkeye’s presence. There was something different about him she  hadn’t quite put her finger on yet.  Despite his towering sturdy frame and the bow and arrows he was carrying, he looked very boyish and mischievous, as if he held a secret nobody else knew. He couldn’t be a year older than her, maybe two.

“Maybe we can look out for each other, huh?” she said quietly. She swung her feet in the dirt and perverted her eyes. “You for me and me for you.”

Hawkeye’s vibrant gaze  burned through to her soul. “Do you want the truth?”

Her head snapped up to him, eyes blazing like a wild fire. Do you want the truth? Did that mean he was going to be honest with her, like all the other men?

Taking her stare for an answer, he pounded a big fist over his heart and said. “On my honor, I will look out for you while you are here.” His voice–deep and genuine–put a firmness on Fable’s soul she hadn’t felt since before her father disappeared. Since her tender years.

Tears welled up in Fable’s eyes as she tried to keep her emotions in check. Something about this boy’s gesture and words broke her heart. They were complete strangers, yet he was being so kind to her. 

“I am proud to know a man who still values honor, Hawkeye.” said Fable. "Thank you." And she meant it.

How nice would it be now, having someone to watch her back. Maybe he would stand up to the men when they mocked her. Having his promise in her heart, maybe it wouldn't be so bad in this appalling hell.

****

The air at the mountain’s crest was thin enough to bruise the lungs. Fable’s chest burned with every ragged intake, a fire that tasted of frost and blood. The mountain was quiet in this spot with a few that could take one’s breath away bursting through the canopies of the trees and vines. Bright red splatters dotted the undergrowth.

“Fire Lilies.” said the jagged teeth man from breakfast, when Fable got closer to look during one of their few rest stops. He saw it as a moment to introduce himself and made a fist and pounded himself over the heart, bowing his head slightly. “Hagar of Redshore.”

Blushing, Fable did the same. “Fable Lee Kami of Moon Haven.” she said. “It is nice to meet you, Hagar.”

Hagar fingered his matted beard and watched her. “All from different towns, yet we are all bound together by the blood of those from Lamar.”

His statement brought Fable’s father to mind. She could still remember him, his Judean-blue gaze and defined, clean jawline. His love for his land and his own people. He always smelled like incense  and mint. 

The memory stayed on her mind for the rest of the day.

By the time they reached the high spring, her bones felt like melting.

She collapsed toward the water's edge, her knees hitting the jagged stones with a sickening thud. blood trickeled down her legs. She didn’t care. She crawled forward until her face met the icy surface of the spring.

"Take a good look, men," a voice sneered from the others nearby. Some drank, some dove, and others stood gawking down at her as if she was a spectacle of interest.

The speaker was a man with powerful arms and legs, dressed like a viking rather than a training warrior. His face was slick with sweat and malice. “If it isn’t the misplaced orphan. Why did they send us a girl, men? She doesn’t cook, she doesn't serve us. She’s dragging the whole division  into the dirt,” hatred illuminated his red rimmed eyes. “This is a disgrace to the whole camp. I tell you, rat, stay out of my way, or I might just have to squash you!” he spat at Fable and gave her a good whack with his foot.

Fable felt the saliva rolling down her face and mixing with the water, but she didn't look up. She couldn't. She dunked her head beneath the surface, the cold water shocking her system. She began to scrub her scalp harshly , her fingers catching in the knots of hair that felt like wet wool. Her scalp burned and when she lifted her head out, a dark, muddy ring  encircled her—the accumulated filth of weeks, the grease, and the phantom crawling of lice.

"She’s rotting from the head down!" another man barked, a harsh, jagged laugh following. “You don’t belong here, woman! Go home where you belong in the kitchen, cooking meals and having children.”

A wave of laughter enveloped her. Some shouted more insults and others whistled cat calls. Fable caught a glimpse of Hawkeye standing in the crowd, watching her.

He didn’t say anything. Not to her, not to the men.

Her face burned, imagining what he must really think of her now.

Fable’s hands trembled in the water as she waded farther away from them. The bottom of the creek was sandy and filled with little pebbles. It stung her sour feet, but she kept moving away. Despite herself, anger burned at the back of her throat. How dare they treat me like this? She stormed inwardly. They think they are so smart and strong and brave. But what they miss is that I am just as smart and strong and brave, probably more. They think I’m weak, but I shall prove them wrong. Even  if it’s the last thing I do.

Aunt Adela, she thought, her eyes stinging with more than just the cold. She could almost smell the lavender and the clean, sun-dried linens of her old room. I want to go home. Please, I just want to go home.

But then she remembered the general's eyes—those dark, haunting mirrors of a dream—held the shadow of the man she was searching for. He reminded her of the day her father was led out of their home and into the dark woods. Fable saw him go. He never returned. He must be lost or held somewhere sacred. She told herself. I must find him, I cannot leave. I must.

Fable glanced up at the men far in the distance. Good. She was down the river, where the rocks grew bigger and the water stretched thinner. She was alone. Their voices still carried down to her—laughing and splashing around—but she was far away enough.

Fable crawled out of the water and sat on a flat rock suspended a few feet over the grassy bank. She started wringing the water out of her hair, trying to forget the men. Hearing footsteps behind her she spun around, horrified.

A Gore?

Fable's body sagged with relief, feeling a wave of dizziness.

There stood the boy Hawkeye, yellow hair shifting in the wind as his vibrant eyes took her in. His face was firm, but his expression held a faint glow of something else.

“What are you doing here?” Fable cried in alarm. She jumped up to get away from him, but he stepped into her path and sat down on the rock close to the spot she had been sitting.

“You don’t own the mountain, you know,” he said, working his jaw. “I can go where I want to go.”

“I–I thought I was alone.” Fable said, trying to control her trembling voice. I want to be alone. So leave me alone. 

Sighing, she took her seat and resumed the work on her hair, feeling foolish to have Hawkeye sit so close to her. What does he want now?

“I’ve been thinking about you.” Hawkeye broke the silence to say. 

Shock rippled through Fable. She turned and stared at him, afraid that he was making fun of her, just like the rest of them. “Why?”

He lowered his long lashes, as if thinking, then he looked straight through her to her soul. “Two months ago, there was another girl here. She was just like you—young and stupid and afraid. She didn’t have any friends and she grew lonely. Her training was in secret missions and assassinations as well. Just like you.” 

Fable stared. “She is  part of division Zelist2?” she asked. She was genuinely interested and hope seemed to blosom once more in her chest. She’d tried to find the other female, hoping for a friendship she couldn’t get from the men. But she hadn’t been successful in any way. Asking around wouldn’t have helped either. Nobody wanted to talk to her or be seen with her.

Hawkeye was speaking. “---she was a member of Zelist2. Her name was Elita. She went through the entire training, including the Entwinement. She even went on her first, second and third secret missions.” 

“What happened to her?”

Hawkeye drew quiet for a few moments. In the background, Fable could hear the men talking and yelling upstream, their lively banter mixed with the sound of the rushing water over rocks. 

Then he narrowed his eyes and shook his head twice. “She died.” he said and tossed a stone into the water. He tossed another one, then ran a hand through his thick hair before looking back at Fable. “Elita died last month. She wandered off alone while on a mission during the Final Weeks and was captured. They tore her head from her shoulders and ripped her body into ribbons. We found her a few days later, her remains strawn everywhere. All except her head.”

Fable drew a sharp intake of air. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, and sat frozen with fear. 

Hawkeye tugged at the leather straps running across his chest and arms. She felt his body tense beside her. “They always go for the head, Fable. Never be fooled to think that you're brave enough to defend yourself.” He glanced up the river. “You never leave your pack. Understand?”

She nodded solemnly. The chance of finding the girl was gone. She was dead. Just like I’m going to be. Just like me.

Hawkeye grunted as he jumped down from the rock. He landed on his two feet and turned to squint back up at her. 

“The Entwining is tomorrow–the most important day,” he told her. “Are you prepared for it?”

“I thought it was today,” she said.

“You’ll be surprised then, because it’s happening tomorrow,” said Hawkeye. “If I were you, I would prepare myself for the unforgettable. That day will be branded in your mind and soul forever.”

Fable felt a shiver curl up her spine. She stood and looked up the river at the group of men. They were lining up and she could hear the sharp voice of their leader barking out orders. 

“Yes, it’s time to run.” Hawkeye said, watching them as well. He shot her a questioning look. “Can you make it back to camp? You look pretty shaken up, and your feet…”

When he trailed off as he glanced at her feet, Fable cringed with embarrassment. She tried hiding her broken and bleeding flesh, scrubbed  white by the pebbles  at the bottom of the lake.

“I’ll be alright,” She lied, turning to head back up the bank and join the group. She didn't quite know what it was, but she suddenly felt cold and clammy on the inside. Like a dead body. No soul, no life. Just a carcas of skin and bones. Even in the frigid water, sweat damped her body.

I need to get out of here! She thought, splashing ahead as quickly as possible.

She could feel Hawkeye’s gaze on her, but she didn’t stop. Not even when she tripped on a loose stone, twisting her ankle painfully and splashing muddy water up into her eyes.

Fable was too worried about the coming day and its strange ceremony that seemed to seep life out of her whenever she heard about it. Before, she had been excited to participate in the Entwinement, hoping and praying that she’d be joined together with Elita. But Elita was dead. And just like her, Fable was sure she was going to face the same fate.

Just a matter of time, a little voice said. Time flies.