Chapter 28: Making of a Mongrel
The Siege (Castle Nirvana)
The woods were dark and foreboding. He moved as one with nature, sure of his progress, unseen by devilish eyes. He was tasked with a mission of great importance. He did not take it lightly.
“Longshot, I need you to locate where they’re contaminating the water.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not call me, sir, we are all equal in Mother’s eyes.”
“Yes, Hawkeye.”
He left without warning for there was no one to tell. He’d been alone for a while, he reveled in the experience for it was not always so. He wished to remember it naught. He’d been a tribal leader in his lands. He held a place of importance, had a wife and was expecting a child. It ended in a flash, the glint of light off steel. They’d been ignorant of its creation. When discovery occurred it was not through trial and error but bloodshed. They invaded, his tribe fought back and lost. He was taken captive, forced into bondage and toiled under a brutal regime.
“You are now enlisted in the Emperor’s army.”
“What of my wife and family?”
“You have no family. Work or die.”
He was ever chained, always manacled, never without a guard.
“Pull, cur!”
They were beasts of burden, the ones with brawn, the ones who survived. The toll taken was remarkably high. Campaigns were fought and wars waged by others, those in the front, those whom they toiled to provide.
“Push, dog!”
The backbreaking labor was death for some, injury to others and for a few, those with the ability to adapt, an evolution into something else, something different; a breed of warrior known by insults given.
“Faster, mongrel!”
They became physically different, able to survive long periods without water, without food, without rest. Those who refused to die were present when the moment occurred, a battle lost, a rout begun.
“Retreat!”
“Out of my way, Mongrel!”
Their captors met an equal foe, were far from their homes and succumbed. The opposing side was not as the others, did not believe in captives, did not take prisoners. They fled into the desert after many were put to the knife. The terrain was vast, hot and devoid of life. It was thought they perished. The thought was wrong. They lived for a reason, forged from brutality, waiting for their moment to strike.
“Mongrels!”
The meaning had changed. Where before a slur was issued what arose was a warning, an alarm; death had arrived.
They were few in the beginning but relentless in pursuit of others, those still in chains, those who endured. He was chosen as leader, refused the offer, chosen again. Three times it took, three different tallies, one response. He accepted with resignation, knowing the consequence, praying not all were lost.
“Earthquake?”
“Sandstorm?”
Neither.
“Mongrels!”
They attacked with speed none could match. They mastered the physical, overcame the mental and practiced the impossible. They rode with fury, hatred, loathing, disgust, anger, contempt. They were unstoppable, unconscionable, amoral.
“I surrender!”
“Everyone surrenders. It is WHAT you surrender which counts!”
The slaves they freed, the captors they killed. None could be left to their situation in life. He led for a reason, a purpose, a promise; those who owned others would own nothing. He vowed to end the practice, the charade, the illusion. To those who believed themselves superior he allowed them to prove so.
“Have mercy!”
“Mercy is for the gods. Ask them yourself.”
He held her memory dear, it sustained him during the troubles, gave him strength to carry on. His only wish, his overwhelming desire, to lie in her arms again. He knew not if she survived, saw her for the last time so many years past he could not recall.
“Please, spare me! I have a wife.”
“At least you die knowing you do.”
Their struggle lasted for two long and brutal years. They became a force, an army, a legend. They kept at their ways, always testing, ever probing their limits. They were one with the environ; harsh, brutal, unforgiving.
“What will you do with us?”
“What you should have done with us.”
As usual the time came not in a sudden burst but with prolonged exposure. They became the larger, the stronger, the dominant. He said his farewells with solemn regret.
“Where will you go?”
“Home, to find my wife.”
“And if she is dead?”
“Home, to bury my past.”
He took a scimitar, bow and arrows. He employed all on the journey. Men in groups were always on the lookout for those alone. He encountered many, dispatched most and let some who survived spread the tale.
“Where are the others?”
“Dead.”
“Why are you alive?”
“To issue the truth; face the Mongrel and die.”
His travel was long, his captors had greatly enlarged their empire, he saw the reason for its decline.
“Where are the taxes?”
“The villagers refuse to pay.”
“Then kill them.”
“We cannot. They are many, we are few.”
He came to the shoreline and longed to see the other side. His home. His wife. Possibly, his child. He was avoided by all, his appearance intimidating, stern, stoic. He sought out another, one with the service he desired.
“I require passage.”
“Two pieces of gold.”
He paid and stood on the deck as the ship set sail, facing the wind, impervious to the chill, ever searching for his home.
“There is food down below.”
“I will remain as I am.”
The voyage was slow, hampered by weather, rocked by waves, soaked in rain.
“There are bunks down below.”
“I will remain as I am.”
They arrived two nights later, he disembarked and rode with hope filling his heart. He arrived a day later to find his village rebuilding, reclaiming their own. He saw one he knew, one he recalled, one who would know the truth.
“Is she alive?”
He knew the answer before she spoke, a look in her eyes the telling clue.
“I am sorry.”
He wished to hear the truth, a need to know, ready to exact revenge.
“How did she die?”
The truth was pain, beyond ability to measure.
“She lived but your child did not. She waited while the others fled, refusing to leave, always promising you would return. She began re-building, became a leader and found those who left. She watched as they came back, ever praying you would be with them, always believing you survived. She caught the fever three weeks ago.”
He’d been beaten, whipped, bloodied, ravaged, bruised and enslaved. All insignificant compared to three words.
“She died yesterday.”
He fell to his knees, vomited, paid his respects and left. He had no home, no village, no purpose. He’d done the deed and buried his love, his hope, his past. He became what they predicted, what they proclaimed, what they feared. He held no sympathy, no kindness, no remorse. He was the cur, the dog, the Mongrel. All who challenged wound up dead. He was the end of life in Human form, unforgiving, unredemptive. She found him as she found the others, shattered souls leading the way.
“Will you come with me?”
“Can you give back my life?”
“No, I am sorry, my powers are not that strong.”
“Then why would I go?”
“Because I offer what you need.”
“What is that?”
“A home.”
He left with her and found a reason, a meaning, a hope. It could not replace the past for he had buried it deep, covered it whole, refused to unearth the misery. His sadness remained but tempered, awash in the love of he
r spirit. He was moving through the forest with one quest in sight, one wish to grant, one payment to be made.
She’d chanced upon one who had given up on life, lost all hope, ready to take Death’s challenge. He had overcome the odds, began to see a way, a possibility, a chance. She had believed when even he did not. He would give his life for her, willingly, without pause, without thought. He owed her that. She had taken a leap of fate for his very essence, his future, his meaning. He was thankful for her gift and aware of the odds because he knew what he was; a longshot indeed.
The beasts were always around, ever present but unaware of his movement. He held an advantage, a trait, a burden. To those in Blight’s camp he was invisible, unseen, a ghost. They could not identify him for he was indistinguishable from their own, vengeance made of flesh, haltered only for one reason, one purpose, one desire. She had given him the gift of a second beginning, a new life, a proper meaning. To those who would challenge her he held only thought, one instinct, one promise; harm Mother Nature and watch the Mongrel rising again.