The Light of A Thousand Suns Chapter 2: The Ascension

Chapter 2: The Ascension

The clanking of metal, the screeching of gears, the bang of things falling against the stone walls of the tower and the echo of their voices sinking was all that could be heard during the ascension.

‘It’s been so long already. When do we get there?’

‘Huh?’ his mother replied, unable to hear him.

‘Don’t worry.’

‘What?’

‘I said don’t worry.’

‘Say that again.’

‘DON’T WORRY!’ That, she had heard.

‘Don’t shout at me! I’m the one who should be shouting you. After all, I am you’re mother.’ Her voice was muffled by the sounds beyond the elevator. It was like speaking to someone through a wall; the words weren’t clear, but it was obvious that someone had been speaking. It remained this way for quite some time, Warlock having decided it was easier not to bother asking.

‘Warlock? Warlock! WARLOCK!’

Her ear-splitting screams pulled him from his ignorance.

‘Have you been listening to me?’

‘Huh?’

‘Did you hear anything I just said?’ Her hands found their way onto her hips once more.

‘Huh?’ he asked once more, a clue less expression branded across the humble, yet handsome features of his pale, white face. Her cross expression revealed that she had been saying something of importance.

‘Take this,’ she said, handing him a thin, leather bound book. He thumbed through the pages to find it was completely empty.

‘This will be your grimoire,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘It is a reflection of all your magical knowledge,’ she explained.

‘I mean what? As in I can’t hear you!’ he yelled, his hand over his ear.

Juniper waltzed across the elevator until she was as close to Warlock as possible. ‘Just keep it safe for now,’ she said. ‘It promise you, it will one day become the most important item in your possession.’

With these words in mind he placed the book in the pocket of his jacket and smiled at his mother.

After some time, the elevator came to a sudden but welcome halt. The clanking and the banging seemed to end along with the movement, and at once, silence was all that was audible, at least until the metal doors before them had begun to slide open. Before Warlock was a scene he had not expected; emptiness.

The hallways to the entrance of The People’s Nation were as baron and desolate as the tower below had been. His footsteps echoed as he entered it, weary of what he might have faced, but there was nothing. He had been told to be prepared for vicious treatment, for questioning and for pain. He had been warned that guards would await their arrival and that he must never reveal his true identity. It seemed, however, that he had been misinformed. There were only three things in the sight; himself, his mother and a great crest embedded on the wall before him. He wondered why it hadn’t caught his attention earlier, with its magnitude and brilliance. It shone with the lustre of diamonds, yet it was a platinum gold colour. Warlock’s own eyes gazed back at him in wonder. It had been made up of a diamond shape, over which a sword and a hammer had been crossed, so that together the object was in the shape of a star. Engraved onto the blade of the sword were the words, ‘For Liberty and Progress.’

‘What’s that?’ he muttered.

‘The crest. Come now, someone will appear any moment to take us in for questioning. You must remember-’

‘The crest of what?’ he interrupted. ‘The High-?’

‘No!’ she snapped. She turned to face him and prodded his nose with her finger, so that he appeared slightly cross eyed. ‘It is not the crest of the Highlands. It is the crest of The People’s Nation.’ Her expression was grave, and she spoke as though a horrible taste accompanied her words. Within moments however, he realised that it was not only because of the disgust she felt for the topic in question, but rather because a horrible taste had actually accompanied her words. She writhed in repugnance, her light brow lowered and her eyes shut tight.

‘Those… Those…’ and she cursed quite horribly, much to Warlock’s surprise, who had always viewed his mother as the epitome of mannerliness. ‘They’ve cursed the name! We’ll I’ll be damned if I can’t say the name of my own country while I’m in it!’

‘How?’ He understood so little about magic.

She didn’t respond, instead taking his arm vehemently and rushing over to one side of the hall. ‘Where are they? Where are those-? No matter, remember what I told you Warlock.’

‘I haven’t forgotten!’

‘We’ve been preparing for years Warlock. Please… please, so much rests on-’

‘I haven’t forgotten mum! Forget nothing, but don’t say everything,’ he whined, mimicking her authoritarian expression.

‘I know, but…’

Before she could finish, two tall guards in dark, glass eyewear and shining, silver armour emerged from either side of the hall, brandishing what appeared to be spears. Closer inspection however, revealed that they were in fact, staffs; long, metallic shafts that spiralled at the top end, engraved with markings unfamiliar to Warlock.

‘They should know nothing Warlock. The elf couldn’t possibly have alerted them.’

Their immediate reaction to the two was unanticipated. They directed the ends of their weapons towards them immediately, their faces hidden beneath platinum helmets. Their staffs however, descended and laughter seemed to erupt from their lips.

‘What’s so funny?’ Juniper barked in bewilderment, ‘perhaps it our clothes.’

‘Our clothes?’ Warlock replied.

‘Stop l-l-laughing Horace! W-w-we have to, we must-’ one cackled.

‘It must be a j-joke,’ the other laughed back.

‘This is not joke!’ Juniper exclaimed. ‘Are you not going to question us?’

‘Maybe it’s a test,’ one said. ‘M-maybe we’re being e-examined.’

‘What ever is so funny?’

‘It’s not funny m-m-Madame, it’s just, no ones come up these… It’s just that…’ He couldn’t finish, but the other had interjected to complete his explanation.

‘We’ve been working here for sixteen years. No one’s ever come up into the People’s Nation. People leave, but they don’t come back. We just, don’t believe it, that’s all.’

‘Yes, well, we’ve come back. Where shall we go?’

‘We’re supposed to question you.’ The guards weren’t at all as they had seemed. Their incessant laughter and doubt for procedure made them appear less than intimidating.

‘Well get to it.’

‘You come with me,’ one of them said stretching his stumpy index finger towards Juniper.

‘And you with me,’ the other said to Warlock, still chuckling beneath his breath. He hadn’t expected he and his mother to have been separated. He looked back over his shoulder, worry stretched across his face. Juniper gestured angrily as to force him to turn back around as she vanished at the other end of the hallway, her figure reflected for a moment in the great, silver crest.

*

‘Hello,’ said the guard who had taken Warlock, even then wrought with disbelief. The two were seated on either end of a simple, steel table in a simple, grey room. Warlock had been seated at one end so that the guard sat before the crest Warlock had seen earlier, which had been painted on the plain wall in one, black shape, with the phrase ‘For liberty and progress,’ written in white. Beneath the guard, lying on the table was a short stack of papers and folders.

‘Hi,’ Warlock replied thinly.

‘My name is Horace,’ he said.

‘I’m Warlock.’

‘Is there a surname?’

He had almost said it, just a twitch away from muttering his true name. Druid slid from his tongue in place of Sparx.

‘Warlock Druid? The name isn’t familiar. What was your father’s profession?’ he asked as he removed his helmet and eyewear. He was strangely handsome beneath, with a heavy brow and rather acute, emerald eyes that stared directly into Warlock’s own, which were a shining, sky blue.

‘Farmer. He and my mother used to live out in the provinces.’

‘Oh. And when did you leave the People’s Nation?’

‘I never left. This is the first time I’ve been here.’ This much was the truth.

‘Oh. So then, it was just your parents. They left before you were born?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Lies, pure lies, spilled out onto the table before him, and he prayed that they would satisfy the guard’s questions. ‘After the Great Liberation,’ he began, ‘My parents found it hard to, you know, live. My mother’s told me they’d go days without proper meals on occasion, after giving their produce over to the Guild.’ This had been their attempt to take a stab at offending those who had governed the People’s Nation.

‘And what did they grow?’

This had not been covered, he would have to improvise. ‘Barley,’ he spat, ‘Barley, and… wheat. Barley and wheat.’

‘Alright.’ Horace leaned back in his chair and stroked his thick, black hair. ‘So they left because they were in poverty. When were you born?’

‘Not long after my parents had come to the moral world.’

‘What was your father’s profession while there?’

‘Well,’ the story he would relate had always felt like more of a dream to him, a shadow of reality that he wished had been real.

‘How did he do it,’ the other guard had asked Juniper, seated in the same position Horace had been in, ‘how did he support you and your son, without any skills?’

‘Well,’ she began, ‘You see. We thought he was going to have to charm someone into giving him a job, but, as it is, there’s this wonderful thing called the pension. Presented ourselves as Hungarian immigrants and we were receiving over three hundred dollars a fortnight, from the government, for doing absolutely nothing!’

‘So the mortal government cares for the less fortunate?’ the guard asked. ‘Much like our own system.’

Juniper earnestly desired to bark, ‘Nothing like our system,’ but, because it was imperative she and Warlock leave the premises, she thought it best not to. She simply smiled and tilted her head, abhorrence fluttering beneath her expression.

‘Where is your husband now?’

‘He died,’ she moaned solemnly, as if it had been the truth.

‘How, may I ask?’

‘I’d rather not discuss it.’ She turned away from the guard as though she might have been crying.

‘I’m afraid you must,’ he replied sternly, ‘leave no detail untold. Or else-’ His silver staff gleamed under his hold, ‘things might seem… somewhat… suspicious.’

‘If I must,’ she whimpered, failing to turn to him.

‘He drowned,’ Warlock lied, having been asked precisely the same question.

‘Oh how tragic,’ Horace replied, genuinely concerned, ‘forgive me, but how? A wizard, dying such an, ordinary death?’

‘He never learned to swim you see, and we were at a beach. He got pulled out by a rip. He would have used magic but, there were so many people around, and the lifeguards tried to save him and-’

‘How noble,’ he replied, bowing his head, ‘even in the face of death, he protected our kind.’ He swallowed Warlock’s lies as if a gullible child, whether because he was foolish or because he was an indisputable caring person, Warlock did not know. At this point however, neither was of any importance. The intimidating figure whose smile had quickly washed off his face was no more.

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, last question. Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why have you come to the High-’ he stopped himself before he could have said it, ‘to the People’s Nation?’

‘To bring back his ashes.’

The guard gazed at Warlock admirably, and a moment of silence followed (perhaps, thought Warlock, in honour of his false father). ‘Then that is all I have to ask.’ He stood from his chair and extended his hand out towards Warlock. His staff had been leant against the wall beside him, out of reach.

Warlock obliged, extending his own hand towards Horace’s and grasping it. His grip was light, and his skin strangely soft. ‘I’ll have to finish some paper work now, but you’re free to go. Your mother should be at the end of hall, in a room like this one. Goodbye.’ He began thumbing through the papers before him, and soon enough words began to form on a number of them simultaneously, as though a ghost had been writing on them.

Warlock left the room without turning back. Once outside he realised how large it had been in reality, it having seemed strangely miniscule when he had been within. He wondered down the empty halls, the echo of his steps behind him omitting the impression that he was being followed. Every so often he would turn back, but find he was alone.

Eventually, he came to pass the great crest and the place where the elevators had been. He couldn’t help but stop to admire it once more, but as he did so, it began to reform. He staggered backwards as the hammer and sword slid outwards, the words vanished and the diamond shape shifted, like water, into a shield. Markings began to glow on the shield, before eventually forming words. A passage titled, ‘The Great Liberation; A Score of Liberty and Progress!’ formed before him.

Twenty years ago, the potential of the primitive collection of lands, formally known as The High Lands, was awakened when the Chief of the People of the Mines of Opulentia was elected as Chairman of the newly formed People’s Nation. He alone transformed the collective into one so that the poor might grow wealthy, having enforced new laws ensuring the equality and fortune of his subjects. With the equal distribution of agricultural produce, the assembly of officials and governors known as The Guild had been given the opportunity to focus their efforts on the Nation’s growing economy, allowing for a new, exciting wave of technologically advancements and defensive power. In less than a year, the People’s Nation had become the greatest, most progressive and most powerful of the Four Magical Nations.

His eyes surveyed the words repeatedly for what must have been several minutes, in complete awe at what he had found. Not a single lie was engraved in the platinum shield, yet neither was the truth, for the new system of government that had been implemented achieved far more than the inscription proclaimed. The redistribution of produce meant that farmers were forced to submit their entire harvest as tax to the Guild, whether or not there was enough to submit. Put simply, in attempting to spread the Nation’s fortune, they had instead spread its poverty, meanwhile focusing all government efforts on industrialisation and the development of an army. As he re-examined the passage he had begun to notice the smaller words disappearing. Slowly, it melted away as the shield transformed back into the magnificent crest. The sword and hammer materialised from below and rose into place, clicking into the diamond with a pleasant chime that echoed throughout the empty halls. It might have been the call of a robin.

The echo of the chime was however, cut short by an acute shriek, one that was not unfamiliar to Warlock. He raced down the hall, the walls on either side of him growing narrower and narrower. His heart pounded in rhythm with his racing feet, and his lungs seemed to descend into the pits of his abdomen.

He peered through the small, frosted window of the heavy doors upon arrival. Juniper was standing above the chair closest to him, and over her curled, crimson locks he saw the guard, leaning forward, still seated. He hadn’t seemed to notice him, too intent on interrogation. Warlock bent down and pressed his ear to the frigid door, desperate for insight.

‘How dare you!’ Juniper squealed like Warlock had never before heard.

‘Mrs Druid,’ the guard breathed, ‘there would be no need to hurt you, if you simply told me the truth.’

‘I’m telling you the truth!’ She drew from her pocket the tiny silk bag, and extracted from it, a great, ornate, urn.

‘My husband is dead!’

‘Very well,’ the guard replied softly, ‘I see. Please be seated.’

Juniper obliged.

‘Are those his ashes?’

‘Yes – AARRGH!’ The pitch of her squeal felt as though a thin, elongated pin had been driven into his eardrum. His fingers grasped the cold doorknob. One more scream, and he would-

A warm weight softly fell upon Warlock’s shoulder, a hand that tightened its grasp, digging into his flesh. He had expected another to close in around his mouth, but instead, it lowered over his hand, forcing it away from the door knob. Warlock turned swiftly and saw Horace, crouching, drawing his finger back over his mouth in silence. Immediately, Warlock understood that he had no intentions to harm him. He turned back again and pressed his ear against the door.

‘Mrs Druid! I know those ashes do not belong to your husband!’ A thud followed by a clanking sound suggested the urn had been thrown to the floor. ‘And I know that Druid is not your name.’

A chair scraped against the ground. As the vibrations surged from the floor, to the door and finally to Warlock, the image of the guard approaching Juniper, his long, spiralled staff directed towards her malevolently, formed in Warlock’s mind. He found himself biting his lip in fear. Had Horace truly come to help? If so, when would he act?

‘I also know that your son was not born two years after your migration to the moral world.’ His footsteps grew louder. ‘Nameless woman, who I suspect so very much to be the wife of William Sparx, is your son sixteen years old?’

‘No! I am not the wife of William Sparx! My son is fourteen-’

‘Answer the Question!’

The door shook against Warlock with a strident thud. She was against the door now. He could feel her fear, swimming into him using the wood between them as a vessel.

‘Is your son sixteen years old?’

There was no answer, but yet another ear splitting scream. Horace’s fingers dug in deeper, his nails now pressing against Warlock’s flesh. Warlock turned to him, desperate to act, but he remained still, listening intently.

‘NO! NO! NO!’

‘I see,’ the guard’s whispers were audible through the door but not clear. Warlock felt his mother sliding down in pain, grinding her teeth with anger, but not crying. ‘Is he-’

‘NO!’ she snapped. Warlock’s feet seemed bound to the ground. His heart melted through his rib cage and spilled out onto the floor as his breath was taken away by anticipation. They hadn’t even been in the People’s Nation for a day, and already, they had been captured, their hopes and intentions thwarted.

‘-the White Wizard?’

Juniper’s shriek was louder and higher than anyone could have ever though possible. Warlock’s feet returned to him and he fell backwards in terror, his hands over his ears and salty tears flowing down into his mouth. He regained his stance hurriedly and lunged forward towards the door, but Horace had stepped in the way. ‘Not yet,’ he whispered.

Juniper cries were halted, and she muttered, ‘No,’ but Warlock knew it had meant, ‘Yes.’ Somehow, the guard had seen through all of her lies.

‘Then he is the White Wizard,’ he breathed gravely. ‘He must be apprehended! HORACE!’

Horace took Warlock into a hold from which he could not break free, opened the door with his built shoulder and stumbled into the room, whispering, ‘Trust me.’

‘He’s the-’

‘White Wizard!’ the other guard interjected. As though he had forgotten about Juniper he strode over towards the two, his thin, bony hand curled around his staff. A thin, wicked smile crept onto his face. ‘We’ve found the White Wizard!’ he laughed. ‘I can’t believe it!’

Juniper burst upwards from below, beating Horace’s chest wildly, screaming unclear phrases, but still, refusing to cry. Warlock continued to struggle to no avail, but only to maintain the façade of his captivity.

‘What should we do? Should we kill him? He’s wanted dead isn’t he?’

‘No,’ Horace replied, ‘we should take him to the guild. They should be the ones to decide his fate.’

‘Hand him over to me,’ the guard cackled, ‘Let me touch him before we give him up. Let’s see what all the prophets have been fussing about.’

Horace almost obliged, but stopped for a moment, gazing blankly in thought. ‘You’ll need both hands,’ he said, ‘he’s a fighter.’ Juniper turned to his back, despite his armour.

‘Hold on then.’ The guard leant his staff against the wall beside him, and almost instantly, Horace released Warlock and leapt forwards, heaving his great first towards the guard’s face. The guard’s fingers were scarcely and inch away from his staff. He reached for it rapidly. Horace’s knuckles collided with his face. Electric blue explosions erupted from the spiralled end of the staff as the two engaged in physical combat. Horace (whose staff remained in the room he had interrogated Warlock in) had begun to mutter obscure phrases and words, of which Warlock heard, ‘pertundo…malum… terembra,’ which seemed to result in pain for the guard, who too had begun speaking in an obscure language. Horace was blown back vehemently by an unseen force. Warlock saw the guard direct his staff towards him. The markings around the spiral began to glow, first an electric blue but then, a deep, ominous crimson.

‘WARLOCK!’ Juniper exclaimed, ‘Get it! Get the staff!’

His eyes were flooded with an expression of sudden realisation. He reached forward, opened his hand and the staff simply flew into it. The guard looked towards him in disbelief and alarm, but was rendered momentarily unconscious by Horace, who had smashed a chair against his back.

Horace raced forward, took the staff from Warlock, helped him stagger upwards and left, calling out, ‘Follow me!’

Warlock and Juniper obliged willingly, disappearing across the threshold and in the shadows of the hall, the sound of their racing steps reverberating around them. It seemed their coming had been expected, and that to some, it was welcome.