A Journey - Part 1: Memory ~~(Chapter 2)~~

Giant, formless clumps of dark smoke hissed in their journeys from the their mother fires, ascending away from the horror below. Death stalked the ground through flames, swords, and gun fire. From an air-bound, small, metal orb amidst the smoke, black lightning bombarded the ground, like knives lit on fire with death—vaporizing anything that moved.

A battle.

Dead men of tall and short, squal and trozal, slave and free, laid scattered among the flaming and broken ground. The crashing and skewering of bodies was all that could be seen between the big balloons of dark smoke and the clumps of corpses.

One fat creature was hunched low as he ran across the expansive beach of killing. An orgy of blood. His skin was a pale yellow and sweat covered. His tendrils that showed his age dangled from his face and back. Slinking around with surprising agility and speed, he dodged perilous dangers as he made his way towards the dead bodies back at the initial front.

The rebels had been pushed a ways back since the start of the battle.

The black lightning from the metal orb was effective in driving the rebels back, as the magicians had hoped. The consequence of their weapon though was that lightning couldn't determine rebel from guard...

Numbers on both sides were dwindling fast as the battle raged on. It wouldn't be long nothing living was left.

Across a glimmering pool of wate with little diamonds of glare appearing from the noon sun, was a sandstone castle. A castle of tyranny, once proud and mighty, now whored with corrupt and power-hungry men. Towers soared into the sky from the magnificent castle, and an elegant, heart-stopping, stained-glass widow was over the massive arched entrance.

The slug man, threatened by swords, lightning, and guns, darted away from the battle. Into the dead field of corpses where the battle had started.

Metal poles eight feet tall were erected around the battle field, some melted at the tips from bein hit by the black lightning, some laying on the ground.

A pike came at him from somewhere in the stream of people. A single point of sheer deadliness and pain—a spearhead, sharp and precise. Something so dangerous, it would only take being in the weapon's line of force and he'd be gone. He would make sure he wasn't where the enemy wanted him to be though.

A simple step to the side as the slug man went by then the spear was useless.

The slug man broke through the crowd and continued toward the field of corpses.

Finally arriving at the dead man he had been looking for, he knelt beside him. His face was pale and dead-as-dirt; yet no wounds could be seen on the man.

People were somewhat scarce where he was now. A few battles raged on here and there, though the main

battle had moved away from the initial front.

He took a two foot rod from his belt and twisted its sides, then pulled it open into an eight foot pole, similar to the others scattered across the battlefield.

He planted it in the ground, and not a moment too soon, for once it was in and his hand was off the metal pole, black lightning struck. The slug creature was thrown back several feet from the impact, though he was uninjured.

He scrambled back to the corpse. Putting three fingers to his forehead, he said a small prayer for the tortured soul of the man on the ground.

Screams still echoed in the distance.

Entering a trance, worry of the battle out of his mind, he rubbed the beads of his necklace together. There was no time to be cautious of the enemy around him. Now was a time for focus. Focus on the soul of his friend. If he was killed in his trance, then both his soul and his friend's would be lost.

He fell into a void in time. Colours of purple and black gathered above and below him, melding together all around. Every movement, every word, every thought from every living thing around the world slowed to halt and disappeared. The stormy sea of shadow and purple gathered and flickered with angry tempests. He allocated his fiery will. His determination. He sent it all into the purple storm.

Then, success. The gate was open. What happened next was a process of ripping his soul from his body, a pain indescribable and otherworldly. Finally, the storm and sea of shadow and purple disappeared into a black void. What was left was his world. Nothing. All that remained was him. The last piece to the puzzle was the simplest. It a thought. A medium rather.

And he thought.

Suddenly the world was no longer nothing, but a red blanket. On this blanket were many different shades, tints, and tones of red.

His mind found refuge on this red blanket. On the smallest atom of the smallest fibre of the smallest strand of the brightest, most red region of the blanket. It was there that he cast a line out and waited for something to bite. At the end of the line was a special hook made of the crystalline knowledge of the ancients. On the crystalline hook was a flame of souls—the bait.

When his heart began pulling from his chest, his eye-lids shot open. His soul slammed down into his body and he took a desperate breath. Nothing could be so disorienting as leaving your own body.

He turned his attention to the man on the ground. “Wake up!” shouted the slug man, the tendrils on his face falling forward with him as he leaned closer to the corpse. He wasn't sure if he had succeeded in retrieving the soul. He slapped the motionless man. Worry was heavy in his voice, “You are called back to the living, do not ignore me! You may rest no longer! Come back now or be lost forever within the Titan's heart!”

The dead man's eyes shot open and he gasped an life-granting breath.

The slug-man laughed with sudden relief. “There you go! I thought I'd lost you. Welcome back to the world of the living.”

His eyes darted around confused. His breathing was quick and he was frightened. “Where am I?” As his face started to fill with life, the paleness left his flesh.

“Nowhere safe. You have to get out of here. Do you remember anything?” he asked, showing a whimsical knowingness in his tone.

“Who are you?”

“I'm a friend.”

“How come I don't know you?”

“You just been through a traumatic experience and you're having trouble remembering. Just trust me, I'll help you out. Do you remember your name?”

His eyes still panicked and wide, he tried to remember. Could he trust the slug-man? “Shouldn't you know my name? You're my friend, you said.”

“I do know your name, but I need to test your memory. You've just had your soul cramped from another dimension into your body in a second and a half.”

“I shouldn't trust you. You're a squal. I remember that.”

“So you do,” he said to himself. “And I'm a squalashell, not a squal. But close. Now, tell me my name?”

“I don't know you, why would I know your name?”

“Like I've said, I'm your friend.”

A cry of anger came from behind the squal, who turned to see a man and his spear charging straight for him.

With strength and agility, the squalashell dodged the lunge and kicked the man in the side to keep him from continuing into the man with no memory.

“Who was that?!”

“You're in the middle of a battle. If you want to live you need to come with me—” a bolt of lightning struck the metal rod again, though this time the heat of the blast melted it to half its height. “Toads n' snakes!” he vociferated in surprise.

The man's face was full of frozen fear at seeing the devastating effects of the black lightning.

When he saw the sluggish hand of the squal extended down to him, it started to dawn on him how few options he had.

Another strike of black lightning arched through the air and vaporized the man with the spear as he tried to get on his feet.

Both the squal and the man jumped in surprise. "Oh, buzz off!" shouted the squal at the lightning.

Then he stared at the dead man on the ground. “It seems the fates be on our side this day friend. Lets not abuse the opportunity they've given us and let's leave with haste.”

The man with no memory was scared of the squal, but he was more scared of the lightning and men with spears. He took the soft yellow hand of the creature.

Once on his feet, the squal introduced himself, “I'm Geist.” The tendrils hanging from the corners of his mouth and along his back was a sign that he was of wise age, though not so old to have the bothers of a crippled body. He had no shirt covering his fat rolls of yellow flesh.

The other man opened his mouth, but said nothing, for he still did not remember his own name.

“You're Daniel.”

The name felt right. “Thank you. What's going on here?”

“We don't have time to spare, so I'll explain when we are away from here. Come.” Then the squal started off down the dirt trail leading back into the battlefield. Now Daniel was wondering how they were going to get past the masses of violence blocking them the direction he was heading.

Before he could follow, a man in thick plate armour, with a red sash across his chest, and clean cut white-blonde hair matching his unshaven face, shouted out in Daniel's direction.

“Master Violen, what are you doing?” He was directing the question at Daniel and running towards him.

No sooner than when Daniel stopped, an arrow cut through the air. Small twitches of breeze pushed the arrow this way and that, and, though impossible to see with the naked eye, the arrow convulsed from the arrow head as it spun. Despite the breeze, or the convulsing, it flew ultimately straight and trained on its destination. Time was made irrelevant by its speed—the instant it left the fingers of the shooter the fate of the target was decided. The arrow went against the wind as if nothing was there. Much too late, the man saw the arrow coming toward him and with it came his imminent death.

When the arrow struck, angles gasped, devils quipped, and the arrow drove through his skull with a massively powerful thud and thrust.

“What was that?! Why'd you do that?!” He looked to the squal, who held a bow in his hand.

“It was necessary, he was an enemy.” The squal's expression was unreadable.

“Why was he calling me Master Violen?”

“He was trying to fool you friend, we must leave.”

Daniel looked back to the armoured man with an arrow through his head. He had crumbled to his knees, but no further. Jagged trails of vengeful-red blood poured down from his forehead. His white-blonde beard and moustache soaked in blood, while the rest dribbled off his chin as if he had bitten into a red fruit.

His eyes stared forward lifelessly, and the blood, splattered on his beard, was ever so vivid and thick, like the blood of a dove. Death could be seen vaguely as it howled above to collect the expired soul and take it into the afterlife.

Daniel decided for himself, undeterred by his disgust and fear at the death of the white-bearded man, he did not want to become like those who were unmoving on the ground—did not want to die again.

The squal was heading toward the shimmering pool and away from the battle.

“Wait for me.” Daniel ran up to the slug creature. “Wait squal.”

The squal was crouched down and walking fast. He looked over his shoulder, “If you're not going to call me by my name, at least don't call me a squal. I am a squalashell. Please don't get the two mixed up.” He started to sound annoyed with Daniel.

“We're not going in there are we?” he asked and motioned towards the castle.

“Not very far inside, but yes. Besides, the castle's much safer than out here. Speaking of that, keep low or the lightning will pick you off.”

Daniel shuddered at remembering what happened to the first man who attacked him. He made sure to crouch lower than he thought necessary.

“Where are we going once we get inside the castle?”

“There's a gas portal inside. I remember where they hide it.”

“Gas portal?”

“You really can't remember much, can you? Do you remember Dren?”

He shook his head.

“That's a shame. Well anyway, one thing at a time. First the castle.”

Just then Daniel could hear an echo from far behind them. It was the name that that the man with white-blonde hair had called him by. He dared not look back to see who uttered that name.